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Behind a Mask ; 


Or Numa Roumestan 


By 


Alphonse Daudet. 


Translated from the French by Virginia Champlin. 


% 


Chicago and New York; 
Rand, McNally & Company, 
Publishers, 


Copyright, 1881, by Lee & Shepard. 
d All rights reserved. . 


Copyright, 890, by Rand, McNally & Co. 


CONTENTS. 
CHAPTER: 1. 
PAGE 
IN THE AMPHITHEATRE 5 . 3 : ‘ . 5 I 
CHAPTER: (if. 
THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN 3 : 5 eels, 
CHAPTER III. 
THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN (continued) . Ab eae 
CHAPTER IV. 
AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH.— MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 52 
CHAPTER 'V. 
MANOR ig i a Ge el es ED neh eas et 
CHAPTER VI. 
A MINISTER . : - : : : : é Peery Fe. 7)5) 
CHAPTER ‘Vil. 
THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON . . : ° . Fs 
CHAPTER VIfi. 
RENEWAL OF YOUTH . r : : ; . > 100 
CHAPTER-IX: 
AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY . ° . . . » 129 
GHAPTENR: ix. 
NorRTH AND SOUTH ; : : . ‘ . ° gle 


CHAPTER XI. 
A WATERING-PLACE : ; ; ? ‘ : < - 168 
vi 


Viii CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER, XIi: 


PAGE 
A WATERING-PLACE (continued) . PF aapcareik Tae tie ty vecae sony 
CHAPTER 26bi: 

A WATERING-PLACE (continued) . C ‘ 6 ‘ eT LOF 
CHAPTER SEV: 

THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. ; : c : : “204 
CHAPTER -XV. 

ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS . 5 : 0 a 5 5 a2, 
CHAPTER OVI. 

THE SKATING-RINK c : 4 : ° 3 Ae egi2 
CHAPTER - XVII. 

THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH . ; - 0 : 5 Bato 
CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE LAYETTE. : : : c c : 5 : 5 Ags 
CHAPTER] Xix, 

THE FIRST OF THE YEAR . c : . g . . 268 
GAAP RHR: 2X. 

HorTENSE LE QUESNOY BS ed Leas gi et | pet eee 


CHAPTER XXII. 
PAR EDISON, foe a ce se eT ee Metre BOR Chr se 


BEHIND A MASK 


OR 


NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER -E 
IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. 


One extremely hot Sunday in July a grand /¢/e was held 
in the amphitheatre at Aps in Provence, on the occasion 
of an agricultural fair. All the town was present, —the 
weavers from Chemin-Neuf, the aristocracy from the Quar- 
tier de la Calade, and even people from Beaucaire, at least 
fifty thousand in number according to the ‘“ Chronicle 
of the Forum” of the next day. ‘The Southern manner of 
exaggeration, however, should be taken into consideration. 
The truth is, that a crowd was massed together in tiers on 
the burning-hot steps of the old amphitheatre, as in the 
palmy days of the Antonines. But the /@/e of the Comitia 
had nothing to do with the overflow of people. Some- 
thing more than the Landaises races, the contests for 
men of different stature, the games of é¢rangle-chat and 
saut sur [outre, the competitions with flutes and tam- 
bourines, and the local exhibitions, older than the red- 
dened stone of the arena, was necessary to induce the 
crowd to remain standing for two hours on those glaring 
flag-stones, in that overpowering, blinding sun, while 


2 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


breathing in, as it were, at every breath, flames and 
dust smelling of gunpowder, and running the risk of 
ophthalmia, sunstrokes, violent fevers, and all the dangers 
and tortures of what is called in that region a noonday 
Jéte. 

The great attraction of the meeting was Numa Rou- 
mestan. 

Ah! the proverb that says, “‘No one is a prophet in 
his own land,” is certainly true of artists and poets, 
whose compatriots are always the last to recognize their 
superiority, which is quite ideal, and without visible 
effect; but it cannot be applied to statesmen, to per- 
sons distinguished in politics or agriculture, or to those 
profitable celebrities who deal out favors and influence, 
and reflect their lustre in blessings of all kinds upon the 
town and its inhabitants. For ten years the great Numa, 
the deputy-leader of the Right, has been a prophet in 
the land of Provence ; for ten years this illustrious son 
of the town of Aps has received the tender demonstra- 
tions of a mother of the South, lavish in manifestations, 
applause, and caresses, and emphatic in gesticulation. 
As soon as he arrives in summer, after the vacation of 
the Chamber begins, and at the very moment he appears 
at the station, ovations begin. Orpheons are there, their 
embroidered banners swelling at the vibrations of their 
heroic choruses ; and porters, seated on the steps, wait 
until the wheels of the family carriage which comes for 
the leader have turned round three times between the 
broad plane-trees of the Avenue Berchére, then place 
themselves in the shafts, and draw the great man amid 
cheers and lifted hats to the Portal mansion, where he 
alights. ‘This enthusiasm in the ceremony of arrival has 
so passed into tradition, that the horses stop of their 


IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. . 


own accord, as at a post-station, at the corner of the 
street where the porters are accustomed to unharness, 
and any amount of lashing with the whip will not make 
them stir a step. From the very first day the town be- 
-comes changed in appearance: it is no longer the dull 
prefecture, taking long siestas, and lulled by the shrill, 
drowsy cry of the locusts on the parched trees of the 
Cours. Even when the sun is highest, the streets and 
esplanade are lively with busy people in their best hats 
and black coats, which appear harsh to the eye in the 
strong light, while their convulsive gestures are reflected 
in sharply defined shadows against the white walls. The 
carriage of the bishop and that of the president make 
the road ring: then delegations from the faubourg where 
Roumestan is adored for his royalist convictions, and 
deputations of warpers, move along in bands the whole 
width of the boulevard, their heads boldly erect, and 
decked with the Arlesian ribbon. The inns are full of 
country people,—farmers from Camargue and Crau, 
whose unharnessed wagons encumber the small squares, 
and the streets of populous localities, as in market-days. 
At evening the crowded cafés remain open far into the 
night ; and the windows of the Club des Blancs, lighted 
at an unusual hour, rattle at the ringing voice of the 
god. 

Not “a prophet in his own country”? One need 
only to look at the amphitheatre beneath the intense blue 
sky on this Sunday of July, 1875, and observe the indiffer- 
ence of the public to what is passing within the circle, 
where every face is turned in the same direction, and 
where a cross-fire is sent from every eye to the same point, 
—the municipal platform where Roumestan is seated 
amid laced coats and trailing silks of every hue, and sun- 


4 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


umbrellas used on ceremonious occasions. One need 
only to hear the speeches, the shouts of joy, and the inno- 
cent remarks made aloud by these good people of Aps ; 
some speaking in Provengal, others in barbarous French 
made smooth with garlic, and all with that accent harsh as 
the sun of that region, that cuts short, and lays a stress on 
each syllable, and spares not a dot over an 2. 

“ Diou! ques beou! Dieu, guwil est beau!” 

(“ Heavens, how beautiful it is ! ”’”) 

“ He has grown stouter since last year.” 

“He has a more imposing air.” 

“Do not push so: there is room for every one.” 

“Do you see our Numa, little one? When you grow 
up you can say that you have seen him, can’t you?” 

“He still has his Bourbon nose, and has not lost a 
tooth.” 

“And has no white hairs either.” 

“Té pardi. He is not so very old yet. He was born 
in ’32, the year that Louis Philippe tore down the crosses 
of the Mission, pécaire.” 

** Ah, that blackguard of a Louis Philippe !” 

“He does not show his forty-three years.” 

“Certainly not. Ah, the beautiful angel!” 

And, with a bold gesture, a tall girl with burning eyes 
sent him from afar a kiss that whistled through the air 
like the cry of a bird. 

“Take care, Zette: what if his lady should see you?”’ 

“ Ts his lady the one in blue?” 

“No: the one in blue is his sister-in-law, Mlle. Hor- 
tense, a pretty young lady who has just left the convent, 
and already mounts a horse like a dragoon. Mme. Rou- 
mestan is more sedate, with a nobler bearing, and looks 
‘nuch more haughty. These Parisian ladies are very 

onceited.” 


IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. 5 


In the picturesque boldness of their language, which 
was half Latin, the women, standing with their hands held 
as a screen over their eyes, picked to pieces in a loud 
voice the two Parisian ladies, their little travelling-hats, 
clinging dresses unadorned by jewels, in such strong con- 
trast with the toilets of the place, where one saw gold 
chains, and green and red petticoats spread over very 
large bustles. The men enumerated the services ren- 
dered the good cause by Numa, his letter to the emperor, 
and his speech for the white flag. Ah! if there had been 
a dozen like him at the Chamber, Henry the Fifth would 
long ago have been on the throne. 

Excited by this talk, and stirred by the inspiring en- 
thusiasm, the good Numa could not keep still. He fell 
back in his broad arm-chair, his eyes closed, and his face 
beaming with joy, and threw himself from one side of it 
to the other, then jumped up, crossed the tribune with 
long strides, bent over a moment towards the circle, 
drank in the light and the shouting, and then returned to 
his place with a jovial, free-and-easy manner. With his 
cravat unfastened, and with his back and the soles of his 
boots turned to the crowd, he kneeled, and spoke to the 
Parisian ladies behind and above him, and tried to com- 
municate his joy to them. 

Mme. Roumestan was bored: it was evident from an 
expression of absent-mindedness and indifference on her 
face, which was marked by beautiful lines and a rathe 
haughty coldness, when it was not lighted by the spiritual 
radiance of a pair of pearl-like gray eyes, those of a true 
Parisian woman, and her mouth with its dazzling teeth 
was not parted in a smile. 

The Southern gayety, characterized by turbulence and 
familiarity, of this wordy, demonstrative, and superficial 


6 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


race, whose natures were the very opposite of her own, 
which was so self-contained and serious, grated on het 
sensibilities: perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she met 
again in them the multiplied and vulgarized type of the 
man by whose side she had lived ten years, and whom to 
his loss she had learned to know. ‘The sky, intense in 
its brilliancy and reflected heat, no longer charmed her. 
How could all these people manage to breathe? Where 
did they get breath enough for such shouts? And aloud 
she dreamed of a pretty Parisian sky, gray and overcast 
by a fresh April shower which caused the sidewalks to 
glitter. 

“© Rosalie! how can you say so?” exclaimed her 
sister and husband indignantly ; her sister in particular, a 
tall young girl blooming with life and health, who in 
order to see better drew herself up to her full height. 
This was her first visit to Provence ; and yet one could but 
think that all this confusion of shouts and gestures be- 
neath an Italian sky was stirring within her some secret 
fibre, some stifled instinct. Her Southern blood was 
revealed by her long eyebrows meeting over her houri- 
like eyes, and by her pale complexion on which summer 
never left a blush. 

“Come, now, my dear Rosalie,” said Roumestan, who 
was eager to convince his wife, “stand up and look. 
Has Paris ever shown you any thing like it?” 

In the vast theatre enlarged into an ellipse, and out- 
lining a large patch of blue, thousands of faces were 
pressed closed together on the many rows of benches, 
bright eyes forming luminous points of light which min- 
gled with the varied reflections and brilliancy of festal 
toilets and picturesque costumes. From thence, as from 
a huge vat, ascended joyous shouts, ringing voices and 


IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. 7 


trumpets, volatilized, as it were, by the intense light of the 
sun. Though hardly distinct on the lower steps, which 
were dim and dusty with sand and many breaths, these 
sounds were accentuated when they were detached, and 
ascended into the pure air. 

Above all rose most distinctly the cry of venders of 
milk-biscuit, bearing from step to step their baskets draped 
with white linen, — “Li pan ou la, li pan ou la.” The 
venders of fresh water, balancing their green and var- 
nished jugs, made one thirsty when listening to their 
gulping, “L’aigo es fresco, quau vou betre?” “The 
water is fresh, who wishes to drink?” ‘Then, at the very 
top, children running and playing on the crest of the 
arena crowned this grand hubbub with sharp sounds as 
high as martinets soar in the kingdom of birds. Over 
all what an admirable play of light, when, the day 
advancing, the sun turned slowly around the vast amphi- 
theatre as on the disk of a sun-dial, driving back and 
crowding into the zone of the shadow the people, who 
left vacant the places most exposed to the strong heat, 
spaces of reddish slabs separated by dried grasses and 
blackened by successive conflagrations! At times on the 
upper tiers a stone becoming loosened rolled from tier to 
tier amid cries of terror, and crowding of the people, as 
if the whole circle was crumbling: then there was a rapid 
movement on the seats, like the assault of a cliff by the 
sea in its fury ; for among that exuberant, impressionable 
race,-effect is never proportionate to the cause, which is 
magnified by their perceptions and imagination. Thus 
peopled and animated, the ruins seemed to be alive 
again, and lost their appearance of a cicerone’s show- 
building. When looking at it one had the sensation 
given by a strophe of Pindar recited by a modern Athe- 


8 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


nian, which is a dead language revived without a cold 
scholastic character. This sky so pure, this sun like 
molten silver ; these Latin intonations preserved here and 
there, especially in the small places, in the Provengal 
idiom; the attitudes of some standing in archways with 
motionless poses which in the glimmering air seemed 
antique and almost like the work of a sculptor, and were a 
type of the place, their heads appearing as if struck off on 
medals ; the short arched nose, the broad shaven cheeks, 
and the turned-up chin of Roumestan,—all together 
completed the illusion of a Roman spectacle, even to the 
lowing of Landaise cows, which echoed through vaults 
from which formerly lions and elephants came forth to 
combat. Thus when above the circle, empty and covered 
with sand, the very large black hole of the podium 
covered by a skylight opened, people expected to see 
wild beasts leap forth instead of the quiet and rural pro- 
cession of beasts and people crowned at the fair. 

It was now the turn of the harnessed mules, which 
were led in by hand. They were covered with rich Pro- 
vencal harness, and held high their little sharp heads, 
which were adorned with silver bells, pompons, knots of 
ribbon, and plumes. They had no fear of the heavy, 
clear-cutting strokes of the whip, like fire-crackers and 
serpents, or of the muleteers who stood on each animal. 
Every village recognized its laureates among the crowd, 
and greeted them in a loud voice: “Here is Cavaillon. 
There is Maussane.” The long, gay procession unwound 
all around the arena, which it filled with a sparkle and 
clinking of luminous bells, and stopped before the box 
of Roumestan, making the strokes of the whip and the 
bells accord a moment in his honor, and then continued 
its winding march, under the direction of a fine cavalier 


IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. 9 


in light-colored tights and high boots, one of the gentle- 
men of the club who planned the /éz, and spoiled every 
thing without suspecting it by mingling the provinces 
with the Provence, and by giving to this curious local 
spectacle the vague appearance of a Franconi cavalcade, 

But, with the exception of a few country people, no 
one looked at them. People had eyes only for the 
municipal platform, which in a moment had become 
invaded by a crowd of persons who had come to salute 
Numa. It comprised his friends, clients, and former 
college-chums, who were proud of their intimacy with 
the great man, and eager to show it on these boards in 
full sight. The wave flowed on uninterruptedly. There 
were old and young men; country gentlemen in com- 
plete gray from their gaiters to their little hats ; overseers 
of workshops in Sunday attire, with their long coats 
creased in the folds ; farm-superintendents in round vests 
from the suburbs of the Aps; and a pilot from Port 
St. Louis twirling his big convict’s cap: all of them 
having the marks of the South upon their faces, which 
were covered to the very eyes by those violet-ebony 
beards which the paleness of Oriental complexions makes 
blacker still, or were closely shaven after the fashion of 
ancient France. They were short-necked people, ruddy 
and perspiring, like terra-cotta vases, with black, blazing, 
prominent eyes, with familiar gestures and freely using 
“thou.” 

As Roumestan received them without noting distinc- 
tion of fortune or birth, with the same profuse demon- 
strations, he greeted them with “ 7?/ M. d’Espalion,” 
and, “How are you, Marquis?— //é-dé/ my old Ca- 
bantous ! how is piloting?— M. le Président Bédarride, 
accept my cordial greeting.” These greetings were 

2 


10 NOMA ROUMESTAN. 


accompanied by hand-shaking, embraces, and those 
hearty slaps on the shoulder which double the value of 
words that are always too cold to express Southern sym- 
pathy. The conversation, however, did not last long. 
The leader half listened, and looked with inattentive eyes, 
and, while talking, said good-day with his hands to the 
new-comers; but no one became angry at his brusque 
manner of dismissal with the kind words, “ Well, well, 
J will take care of it. Present your demands. I will 
lay them before .’ They were official promises of 
tobacco-shops. He divined even what was not asked, 
and encouraged and awakened timid ambitions. “No 
medals, my old Cabantous, after saving life twenty 
times? Send me your papers. They adore me in the 
navy department. We will repair this injustice.” His 
voice rang out warm and metallic ; and, as his words fell 
from his lips sharp and clear, one would have fancied 
them new gold pieces rolling forth. Every one went 
away delighted with this brilliant coin, and descended 
the platform with the beaming brow of the scholar 
carrying away his prize. What was most noticeable in 
this strange man was his wonderful way of assuming 
most naturally and unconsciously the manner and tone 
of the people to whom he spoke, — an impressive, frank, 
and simple air with President Bédarride, with his arm 
extended like a magistrate, as if he were shaking his 
toga at the bar; a martial air, and wearing his hat like 
a combatant, when speaking to the Colonel de Roche- 
maure ; his hands in his pockets, and his legs curved, 
and shoulders rolling like those of an old sea-dog, with 
Cabantous. From time to time, between the greetings, 
radiant, and wiping his steaming forehead, he returned 
to his Parisian ladies. 





IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. it 


“But, my good Numa,” said Hortense in a low voice, 
with a pretty laugh, “when will you secure them all the 
tobacco-shops you have promised them?” 

Roumestan leaned over his big head with his crinkly 
hair, somewhat thinned on the top, and whispered, — 

“They are promised, little sister ; not given.” 

And, divining a reproach in his wife’s silence, he added, 
“To not forget that we are in the South, among com- 
patriots, and speaking the same language. All these 
worthy fellows know the worth of a promise, and expect 
their tobacco-shops no more than I expect to give them. 
Only they talk of it because it amuses them, and gives 
wings to their imagination. Why deprive them of this 
joy? Besides, you see, among Southerners words never 
have more than a relative meaning. It is merely putting 
things in a favorable light ;’ which, as the expression 
pleased him, he repeated two or three times with an 
emphasis on “ favorable light.” 

“T like these people,’’ said Hortense, who was really 
much amused ; but Rosalie was not convinced. ‘“ Words, 
however, mean something,” she murmured very seriously, 
as if in the innermost depths of her being she were 
speaking to herself. 

“My dear, that depends on latitudes,” said Roumes- 
tan, comfirming his paradox with a movement of the 
shoulder peculiar to him, and like the forward movement 
of a pedler putting on his strap. The great orator of 
the Right retained some habits like this, of which he had 
never been able to rid himself, and which, had he been 
in any other party, would have made him pass for a 
man of the common classes; but on the aristocratic 
heights where he reigned, between Prince d’Anhalt and 
the Duke de la Rochetaillade, it was a sign of power and 


12 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


great originality, and the Faubourg St. Germain raved 
about this movement of the shoulder on the rounded 
back which bore the hopes of the French monarchy. If 
Mme. Roumestan had formerly shared the illusions of 
this faubourg, she had ceased to do so now, to judge by 
her disenchanted look, and the slight smile which curled 
her lip as the leader went on speaking, —a smile paler 
even with melancholy than disdain. But her husband 
left her, suddenly attracted by the strange music which 
arose from the arena amid the noise of the crowd that 
was standing, and enthusiastically shouting, “ Valmajour, 
Valmajour !” 

Victorious in the competition of the evening before, 
the famous Valmajour, the first tambourinist in Provence, 
came to greet Numa with his prettiest airs. 

Truly Valmajour standing in the middle of the circle, 
with his vest of yellow worsted serge over his shoulder, 
and with a belt of bright red making sharp outlines 
against the white linen around his loins, was handsome. 
He held his long, light tambourine suspended from his 
left arm by a strap, and with the left hand bore to his 
lips a small fife, while with the right hand and leg held 
forward he played his tambourine confidently. 

Although very small, this fife filled the air around 
like the ringing of locusts, and was well fitted to this 
limpid, crystalline atmosphere, where every thing vibrates : 
the tambourine with its deep voice sustained the song 
and its variations. At the sound of this sharp, wild 
music, more than by all that he had seen since he had 
been there, Roumestan saw rise before him his childhood, 
when he was a Provengal lad, running about at rural /ées, 
and dancing under the leafy plane-trees in the village 
squares, in the white dust of the broad roads, and in the 


IN” THE AMPHITHEATRE. 13 
lavender of the parched hillsides. A pleasant emotion 
brightened his eyes; for notwithstanding his forty years, 
and a political life that was very wearing, he still pre- 
served, by the favor of nature, great imagination and that 
outward appearance of sensibility which deceives one as 
to the true background of character. Then this Valmajour 
was not an ordinary tambourinist, one of those common 
fiddlers who pick up ends of quadrilles and refrains of 
concert saloons in country festivals, and lower their in- 
strument to tune it to modern taste. The son and grand- 
son of a tambourinist, he never played other than national 
airs sung by grandmothers over cradles, and knew them 
well, and did not weary of them. After the Christmas 
carols set to music in minuets and rigadoons, he played 
the King’s March to which Turenne in the grand century 
conquered and burned the Palatinate. Along the steps 
where trills ran just now like murmurs of flitting bees, the 
electrified crowd kept time with their arms and heads, 
following the superb rhythm, which like a gust of the 
_mistral swept along through the deep silence of the 
-amphitheatre where was heard only the whizzing sound of 
the bewildered swallows whirling in circles high above, in 
the blue sky paling to green, restless and charmed as if in 
that wide space they were seeking what invisible bird was 
uttering the shrill notes. 

When Valmajour had finished, the wildest applause 
burst forth. Hats and handkerchiefs were tossed into 
the air. Roumestan called the musician to the platform, 
and threw himself upon his neck. “You have made me 
weep, my worthy fellow,” he said, pointing to his large 
golden-brown eyes moist with tears. Feeling proud at 
finding himself surrounded by embroidery and official 


ivory swords, he accepted these congratulations and 
2 


14 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


greetings without very great embarrassment. He was a 
fine fellow, with reguiar features, a high forehead, and a 
beard and mustache of lustrous black against a swarthy 
complexion, — one of those proud peasants of the valley 
of the Rhone, who have none of the artful humility of 
the villagers in the central regions. 

Hortense immediately observed how delicate his hand 
looked, notwithstanding its coating of sunburn. She 
looked at the tambourine and its stick with an ivory knob, 
and was astonished at the lightness of the instrument, that 
had been in the family two hundred years, and whose 
walnut case, ornamented with light carving, and polished, 
thin, and sonorous, seemed as.if it had grown pliant as 
time had colored it. She particularly admired the ga- 
Joubert, the quaint rustic flute with three stops of the an- 
cient tambourinists, to which Valmajour had returned 
out of respect for tradition, and the handling of which he 
had mastered by dint of skill and patience. There was 
nothing more touching than the little story he told of his 
struggles and victory. “It came to me,” he said in his 
odd French, “ at night while listening to the nightingale. 
I thought to myself, What! Valmajour, there is a bird 
created by the good God, whose throat answers for any 
kind of roulade; and what he does with one stop, can- 
not you do with the three stops of your flute?” He 
spoke deliberately, with a fine timbre in his voice, which 
was reliant and sweet, for he had no fear of incurring ridi- 
cule. Besides, no one would have dared to smile at the 
enthusiasm of Numa, who raised his arms, and stamped 
enough to break in the platform. ‘‘ How handsome he is ! 
What an artist!’’ he exclaimed. And after him the 
mayor, the general, President Bédarride, M. Roumavage, 
a great beer-manufacturer of Beaucaire, and the vice- 


IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. 15 


consul of Pérou incased in a carnival costume of silver, 
and others besides, led on by the authority of the leader, 
repeated in tones of conviction, “What an artist!” It 
was also the opinion of Hortense ; and she expressed it 
in her ardent manner, “ Oh, yes, a great artist !”’ while 
Mme. Roumestan murmured, “But you will turn the poor 
fellow’s head.” It hardly appeared possible, however, 
judging by the quiet air of Valmajour, who was not even 
moved when hearing Numa say to him abruptly, — 

* Come to Paris, boy, and your fortune is made.” 

“Oh! my sister would never give her consent,” he 
answered with a smile. His mother was dead; and he 
lived with his father and sister on a farm which bore their 
name, three leagues from Aps, on the Cordova mountain. 
Roumestan swore to call upon him before leaving. He 
would speak to his relations, and was sure of bringing it 
about. “Iwill help you, Numa,” said a youthful voice 
behind him. 

Valmajour bowed without speaking a word, turned on 
his heels, and descended the broad carpeted platform, his 
box on his arm, and head erect, with the light swaying 
motion of the Provencal, that lover of music and the 
dance. Below, comrades were awaiting him, and clasped 
his hands. Then the cry went up, “The farandole!” 
which was received by loud shouting, prolonged by the 
echo of the arches in the passages from which seemed to 
come the shade and coolness that now filled the arena 
and diminished the power of the sun. Instantly the circle 
became filled, even to overflowing the railing, with a crowd 
from the village, —a mass of white fichus, glaring skirts, vel- 
vet ribbons fluttering from lace caps, embroidered blouses, 
and woollen jackets. At a rattling of the tambourine, the 
throng fell into line, and filed off into bands with legs 


16 NOMA ROUMESTAN. 


stiffened and hands clasped. A trill from the galoudbet 
made the whole circle vibrate ; and the farando/e, led off 
by a tall fellow from Barbantane, the country of famous 
dancers, began its slow march, unwinding its rings, and 
forming its figures almost on one spot, filling with the 
confused noise of breathing, and the rustling of apparel, 
the opening where gradually it was lost to view. Valma- 
jour followed with an even, solemn step, and while march- 
ing pushed his big tambourine from his knee, and played 
louder as the closely packed people in the arena, that 
was already bathed in the dim blue of twilight, unwound 
like a gold-and-silk bobbin. 

“Look above,” said Roumestan all at once. 

It was the head of the line of dancers pouring in be- 
tween the arches on the first story, while the tambourinist 
and the last dancers of the farandole were still moving 
about in the circle. On the way the winding procession 
was made longer by all those whom the rhythm led as by 
force to follow it. Who among those Provengals could 
have resisted Valmajour’s magic flute? Borne on, and 
sounding louder by the beating of the tambourine, pass- 
ing the railings and open air-holes, and rising above the 
cries and exclamations of the crowd, it was heard on 
every story at once. The /avandole went higher and 
higher, and reached the upper galleries, where the sun 
still left an edge of tawny light. The long line of grave 
dancers bounding along, and defined on the high arched 
bays of the tier, in the warm, vibrating air of this declin- 
ing day in July, became a succession of delicate sil- 
houettes, and formed against the old stone an animated 
bas-relief such as projects from the dilapidated front of 
temples. 

Below on the empty platform, — for people were leav- 


IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. Ij 


ing, and there was more space between the dancers above 
the empty steps, —the good Numa said to his wife, as 
he threw a small lace shawl over her shoulders to protect 
her from the evening air, — 

“Tell me, is it not beautiful?” 

“Very beautiful,” answered the Parisian lady, moved 
this time to the depths of her artistic nature. 

The great man from Aps seemed prouder of this 
approbation than of the noisy homage which had nearly 
stunned him for two hours. 


18 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER, IT 
THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 


Numa RouMESTAN was twenty-two when he came to 
Paris to conclude his law-studies begun at Aix. He was 
at this time a fine fellow, joyous and noisy, with a bright 
color in his cheeks, with handsome, golden-brown, and 
prominent batrachian eyes, and with black frizzly hair 
like a visorless felt cap concealing half of his forehead. 
There was not the trace of an idea or ambition beneath 
this invading, fur-like mass. 

He was a true Aps student, very strong at billiards 
and mst, without an equal in drinking a bottle of cham- 
pagne @ /a régalade,* or in chasing a cat by torch-light, 
until three o’clock in the morning, in the broad streets of 
the old aristocratic and parliamentary town; but inter- 
ested in nothing, never opening a newspaper or book, 
and incrusted with that provincial folly that shrugs its 
shoulders at every thing, and adorns its ignorance with 
the reputation of great good sense. 

The Latin Quarter stimulated him somewhat, without 
much reason, however. Like all his compatriots, Numa 
on arriving installed himself at the Café Malmus, a high, 
noisy, shabby, old building, which displayed three stories 
of glass windows broad as those of a fancy-goods store, 
on the corner of the Rue Four St.-Germain, which it 
filled with the noise of billiard-playing, and the shouting 


1 Drinking without letting the bottle touch the lips. 


‘eh 


‘ 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 19 


of its barbaric patrons. There all Southern France, with 
its various shades, was in full bloom. One could find 
there the Gascon South, the Provincial South, from Bor- 
deaux, Toulouse, Marseilles ; the Périgourdin, Auvergnat, 
Ariégeois, Ardéchois ; and the Pyrenean South, with ter- 
minations in “as, ws, and ac,” high-sounding, sonorous, 
and barbarous, such as Etcheverry, Terminarias, Benta- 
boulech, and Laboulbéne ; hard-sounding names, which 
seemed to be shot out of the mouth of a blunderbuss, or 
hurled forth as from the explosion of a mine. What loud 
voices, if only a half-cup of something were asked for! 
What noisy, hearty laughter, like the tumbling of a cart- 
load of stones! and what huge, stubbly, and black beards 
with bluish reflections, that defied a razor, and reached 
to the eyes, joined the eyebrows, and stood out stiffly 
from the broad, dilated, horse-like nose, and from the 
ears, without succeeding in concealing the youth and 
innocence of the good faces beneath ! 

After the studies, which they assiduously followed, 
these students passed their time at Malmus’, forming 
into groups according to the provinces or parishes from 
which they came, around tables long reserved for them, 
which in the echo from their marble tops must have pre- 
served the accent of the country as desks preserve the 
signatures carved by the knives of collegians. 

There were only a few women in this horde, — only 
two or three poor girls on a story, whom their ashamed 
lovers brought there, and with whom they passed the 
evening before a glass of bock. Leaning over the large 
cartoons in the picture-papers, they were silent and out 
of place among the youth from the South, who were taught 
to despise women, dou fémélan. Mistresses, paral, te, 
they knew where to find them. Bullier, the shouting and 


20 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


singing, and the suppers at the *éésseuse, did not tempt 
them. ‘They preferred to remain at Malmus, talk pazors, 
and waddle between the café, school, and /adble-a’hére. 
If they passed the bridges, it was to go to the Théatre 
Francais to some performance of the stock-company, for 
the race is classic by birth : they went boisterously through 
the street in numbers, but felt rather intimidated at heart, 
and returned silent and out of breath, their eyes dim with 
tragic dust, to have another game by the lowered gas- 
light, behind closed shutters. From time to time, when 
there is an examination, an improvised feast will pervade 
the café with odors of garlic-stews and strong mountain 
cheeses in blue paper. ‘There the new diploma-bearer 
would take from the rack his pipe marked with his ini- 
tials, and would go away as a notary or substitute to some 
distant out-of-the-way place beyond the Loire, and talk 
of Paris to people in the provinces, — that Paris which he 
thought he knew, and which he had never really entered. 

In these hardened surroundings, Numa was easily 
regarded as a superior man. In the first place, he 
shouted louder than the others ; then a superiority, or at 
least originality, was imputed to him because of his very 
lively taste for music. Two or three times a week he 
bought a seat in the pit at the opera or at Les Italiens, 
and returned with his mouth full of recitatives and grand 
airs, which he sang in a voice rebellious to all discipline. 
When he arrived at Malmus, and advanced in a theatrical 
manner among the tables, rolling out some Italian finale, 
he was received with shouts of joy from every story: 
“ Heé, the artist !”’ they cried ; and, as in bourgeois local- 
ities, this word brought a fawning curiosity into women’s 
eyes, and envious and ironical comments to the lips of 
men. ‘This artistic reputation after a while served him in 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 21 


the way of influence in business. Even to-day, there is 
not an artistic commission at the Chamber, a project of 
popular opera, or of reform in the exhibitions of paintings, 
in which the name of Roumestan does not figure in the 
first line. It is well known in the theatres devoted to 
singing. He visited them with assurance, the ways of an 
actor, and a certain manner of posing in a three-quarters 
view when speaking to the lady at the desk, which made 
his astonished comrades exclaim, ‘‘ That Numa is a fine 
fellow.”” He showed the same ease at school; and 
though half prepared, for he was lazy and dreaded work 
and solitude, he passed tolerably brilliant examinations, 
thanks to his audacity and Southern subtilty, which always 
enabled him to discover the susceptible spot where a pro- 
fessor’s vanity could be touched. Then his frank, amiable 
face served him, and his lucky star lighted the path 
before him. 

As soon as he became a lawyer, his parents recalled 
him ; the modest board they allowed him costing them 
too severe privations. But the prospect of going and 
shutting himself up in that dead city of the Aps, whose 
ancient ruins were falling into dust, with his life mapped 
out before him in an endless tour of the town and a few 
debates on party-walls, had nothing to tempt the unde- 
fined ambition which the Provengal felt underneath his 
taste for the stir and intelligence of Paris. With great 
difficulty he secured two years more to prepare for his 
degree ; and then, when the irrevocable order to return to 
the country came to him, he met at the house of the 
Duchess of San-Donnino, at one of those musical /é¢es 
where his pleasing voice and lyrical relations admitted 
him, the great Sagnier, the Legitimist lawyer, the music- 
mad brother of the duchess, who in his monotonous 


22 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


worldly life was charmed by Numa’s exuberance and by 
his enthusiasm for Mozart. Sagnier offered to take him 
as fourth secretary. ‘The salary was nothing; but he en- 
tered the most important business office in Paris, which 
was intimately connected with the Faubourg St. Germain 
and with the Chamber. Unfortunately the elder Rou- 
mestan persisted in cutting off his allowance, in trying 
through famine to bring back his only son, the lawyer of 
twenty-six, of an age to earn his living. It was then that 
the café-proprietor Malmus interposed. 

This Malmus was a type, —a stout, pale, asthmatic 
man, who from a simple ca/é-boy had, through credit 
and usury, become the proprietor of one of the largest 
establishments in Paris. Formerly he advanced to stu- 
dents their monthly money, which he made them return 
threefold when the remittances arrived. Reading with 
difficulty, and unable to write, marking the number of 
sous which he lent with notches in the wood, as he had 
seen the baker-boys of Lyons, his compatriots, do, he 
never became confused in his accounts, and, above all, 
did not lend his money unwisely. Later, when he had 
become rich, and was at the head of the house where 
for fifteen years he had worn an apron, he perfected his 
business, placed it all on an unlimited credit, which at 
the end of the day left the three ca/é-counters empty, 
but drew up interminable columns of charges for bottles 
of bock, dinners, and small glasses, on books fantasti- 
cally kept, with the famous pens with fine tips, held in 
such esteem among business men in Paris. The good 
man’s plan was simple: he allowed the student his 
pocket and board money, and gave him credit for meals 
and consumable articles, and, to a privileged few, credit 
for a chamber in the house. 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 23 


During the whole course of study, he did not ask for 
a sou, and let the interest of a considerable sum accu- 
mulate ; but this was not done rashly and without watch- 
fulness. Malmus passed two vacation months of the 
year in making journeys to the provinces, to assure him- 
self of the health of the parents, and the standing of 
the families. His asthma made him out of breath while 
climbing the Cevenol peaks and tumbling down into the 
Languedoc valleys. Gouty and mysterious he was seen 
to wander along through remote villages, his big white 
eyebrows frowning, and his eyes looking mistrustful 
under their lids that were heavy as when he was a 
night-waiter. He remained two days, visited the notary 
and officer, and, by looking over the walls, inspected the 
small domain or the factory of the client, then was heard 
of no more. 

What he learned at Aps gave him full confidence in 
Roumestan. The father, a former spinner, ruined by 
dreams of fortune and unfortunate inventions, lived 
modestly as an insurance inspector; but his sister Mme. 
Portal, the childless widow of a wealthy magistrate, was 
to leave all her property to her nephew. So Malmus 
tried to keep him in Paris. “Come in to Sagnier’s. I 
will help you.” As the secretary of a man of impor- 
tance he could not live in student’s quarters, but fur- 
nished a small bachelor’s apartment in Quai Voltaire, on 
the court, and took upon himself the rent and board. In 
this way the future leader began his career, with all the 
appearance of an easy life, yet in the background being 
terribly in need, and lacking ballast and pocket-money. 
Sagnier’s friendship gained him valuable connections. 
The faubourg welcomed him. Only his worldly success, 
and invitations to Paris in summer, where he must go iu 


Za NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


style, increased his expenses. Aunt Portal, at his re- 
peated demands, aided him; but with precaution and 
parsimony, accompanying her package with long and 
amusing lectures, and biblical threats against this ruinous 
Paris. ‘The situation was not tenable, and at the end of 
a year Numa sought something else; besides, Sagnier 
needed attentive students, hard-working fellows, and this 
one did not belong to that class. There was an uncon- 
querable indolence in the Southerner, and, above all, a 
horror of an office and steady continuous work. This 
faculty, attention, which requires depth, was radically 
wanting in him. This was owing to the vivacity of his 
imagination, to the perpetual buoyancy of his ideas, and 
to that fickleness of mind visible even in his writing, 
which was never alike. He was superficial in voice and 
gestures like a tenor. 

“When I do not speak, I do not think,” he said very 
innocently ; and it was true. Words did not spring 
forth through the force of thought: on the contrary, they 
brought it out, and awakened it by their mere mechani- 
cal sound. He astonished and amused himself at this 
meeting of words and ideas, lost in a corner of his 
memory, and found again, gathered together, and ar- 
ranged in a heap of arguments, by speech. When speak- 
ing, he discovered in himself a sensibility of which he 
was not aware: he was moved at the vibration of his 
own voice, and at certain intonations which took hold 
of his heart, and filled his eyes with tears. They were 
certainly the qualities of an orator; but he was ignorant 
of them in himself, having had but little occasion at 
Sagnier’s to make use of them. Nevertheless, this year 
with the great Legitimist lawyer was a decisive one in his 
life. He then acquired convictions, a calling, a taste for 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 25 


politics, and a desire for fortune and glory. It was glory 
that came first. Some months after leaving his patron, 
this title, the secretary of Sagnier, — which he bore like 
actors who speak of themselves as “from the Comédie 
Francaise,” from having figured there twice, — gave him 
the power to forbid the publication of a small Legitimist 
paper, “ Le Furet,” which had a wide circulation in the 
best society. He did so with great success. Having 
come there without preparation, and with his hands in 
his pockets, he talked two hours with insolent spirit and 
so much fine humor that he forced the judges to listen 
to him to the end. His accent and that terrible lisping, 
of which his laziness had always prevented him from 
ridding himself, gave an edge to his irony. There was 
power in the rhythm of that perfectly Southern eloquence : 
though theatrical and familiar, it had, above all, the clear- 
ness and broad light that is found even in the back- 
ground of the limpid landscapes of the South. 

Naturally, the paper was condemned, and the lawyer’s 
great success was paid for by fines and imprisonment. 
Thus, in certain plays which fall to the ground, bringing 
author and manager to ruin, an actor will carve out for 
himself a reputation. The old Sagnier, who had come to 
hear him, embraced him before all the audience. “ You 
may look upon yourself as a great man, my dear Numa,” 
he said, rather surprised at having hatched this gerfalcon 
egg. But the most astonished of all was Roumestan 
himself, who went from there as one awakens from a 
dream. His words echoed in his buzzing ears, while he 
giddily descended the wide palace staircase. 

After the success of this ovation, after a shower of 
eulogistic letters, and the jaundiced smiles of his con- 


Srerés, the lawyer thought himself launched, and patiently 
3 


26 WVUMA ROUMESTAN. 


waited for business in his office on the court, before the 
meagre widow’s fire lighted by his concierge ; but nothing 
came, save a few more invitations to dinner, and a pretty 
bronze from Barbedienne offered by the editors of the 
“Furet.”” The newly great man found before him the 
same difficulties, and uncertainty as to the future. Ah! 
these professions called liberal, which cannot decoy and 
call in clients, have hard struggles at first. It is a long 
while before a line of serious and paying clients seat 
themselves in the small waiting-room which is hired on 
credit, and has the usual uncomfortable furniture and a 
symbolical clock flanked by ungainly candelabra. Rou- 
mestan was reduced to giving instruction in law among 
Legitimists and Catholics; but the occupation seemed 
beneath his reputation, his success at the conference, and 
the praises with which people laurelled his name in the 
party journals. What saddened him still more, and made 
him feel his poverty, was the dinner which he was obliged 
to seek at Malmus’, when he had no invitation out, or the 
state of his purse forbade his entering fashionable restau- 
rants. ‘The same lady at the counter sat between the 
same bowls of punch, the same porcelain stove roared 
near the pigeon-hole of pipes, and the shouts, accents, 
and black beards of the whole South mingled confusedly 
as before ; but, his old associates having disappeared, he 
looked at those present with the prejudice which a man 
in his maturity and without position feels for those who 
are crowding him off the stage. How had he been able 
to live and find amusement in the trifles of these com- 
monplace surroundings? But formerly students were 
not so stupid. Their admiration, even their capering 
about him like good-natured innocent dogs, because of 
his notoriety, were insufferable to him. While dining at 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 24 


the café, the proprietor, who was very proud of his patron, 
would come and sit near him on the faded red sofa, 
which he shook with every attack of his asthma ; while at 
the adjoining table sat a tall, thin girl, the only face that 
remained of old times, —bony and indicating no particu- 
lar age, and known in the district under the name of 
Lancienne & tous, for whom some fine student, married, 
and returning to his native country, when leaving, had 
opened an account. Browsing so many years around the 
same picket, the poor creature knew nothing of the 
world outside, and was unaware of Roumestan’s success, 
and spoke to him in a tone of commiseration as to one 
crippled in circumstances and of the same rank as her- 
self. “Well, my old girl, how are you getting on? You 
know Pompon is married. ... Laboulbéne has ex- 
changed, and passed as a substitute at Caen,” Roumestan 
briefly answered, choking himself by mouthfuls twice too 
big; and went off through the streets in the neighbor- 
hood, made noisy by breweries, and the selling of prunes, 
and felt the bitterness of an unsuccessful life which gave 
him a sense of downfall. 

A few years passed thus, during which his name grew 
greater, and better established, always without other profit 
than low prices at Barbediennes. Once he was called 
upon to defend a merchant of Avignon, who had had 
some seditious silk handkerchiefs manufactured, with 
some device around the name of Count de Chambord, 
rather confused in the unskilful impression on the tissue, 
though underlined with an imprudent H. V., surrounded 
by an escutcheon. Roumestan played a fine bit of 
comedy, and became indignant that any one could see in 
it the least political allusion: H. V.,— why, it was Hor- 
ace Vernet, presiding over a commission of the Institute ! 


28 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


This ¢arasconnade had a local success that did more 
for his future than all the eulogies of Paris, and in par- 
ticular gained the active sympathies of aunt Portal. This 
was expressed at first by a parcel of olive-oil and white 
melons ; then a quantity of other provisions followed, — 
figs, peppers, cants:ons from Aix, and doutargues* from 
Martigues, jujubes, azeroles, carobs, and other insignifi- 
cant fruit, about which the old lady raved, and which the 
lawyer left to decay in the bottom of a cupboard. Some 
time afterwards a letter arrived, which in its coarse goose- 
quill writing recalled the rough accent and ludicrous 
expressions of the aunt, and betrayed her ill-regulated 
mind by the absolute absence of punctuation, and the 
jumping from one idea to another. 

Numa, however, thought he discovered that the good 
woman wished to marry him to the daughter of a. coun- 
cillor at the Court of Appeal in Paris, M. Le Quesnoy, 
whose wife—-a young lady from Aps by the name of 
Soustelle — had been brought up with her at the Sisters 
of La Calade. She had a large fortune, — pretty figure, 
—was a little defiant, and had rather a vefréjon air, but 
mazriage would change that. And if this marriage took 
place, what would aunt Portal give her Numa? One 
hundred thousand frances in good silver money on the 
wedding-day. 

Beneath the provincialisms of the language, there was 
a serious proposition, —so serious, that, the second day 
after, Numa received an invitation to dine at Le Quesnoy. 
He went there somewhat excited. The councillor, whom 
he often met at the Palace, was one of the men who 
impressed him the most. Tall and slender, with a 
haughty face of unhealthy paleness, with a sharp search- 


1 Italian dish of fishes’ eggs preserved in vinegar. — TRANS. 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 29 


ing eye, and a mouth compressed as if it were sealed, 
the old magistrate, a native of Valenciennes, who himself 
seemed fortified and casemated by Vauban, engineer of 
Louis XIV., threw a restraint upon him by his Northern 
coldness. The high position which he owed to his fine 
works on the penal law, to his large fortune, and the 
austerity of his life, —which would have been more 
important still, had it not been for the independence of 
his opinions, and the hermit-like seclusion in which he 
had buried himself since the death of a son of twenty, — 
passed before the eyes of the Southerner, one evening in 
September, 1865, as he ascended the broad stone steps, 
with carved railing, of the Hotel Le Quesnoy, one of the 
most ancient in the Place Royale. 

The grand salon into which he was introduced, the 
solemn look of the lofty ceilings which joined the doors 
by the delicate frieze, the straight hangings of gold and 
fawn-colored striped silk framing the windows which 
opened on an antique balcony, and an angle of reddish 
color formed by the brick buildings of the place, were 
not likely to dispel his impression. But the reception of 
Mme. Le Quesnoy soon put him at his ease. This little 
woman with a sad though kindly smile, and wrapped up 
and stiff with rheumatism, from which she had suffered 
since she lived in Paris, preserved the accent and habits 
of her dear South, and the love of all that reminded her 
of it. She made Roumestan sit near her, and said, while 
tenderly looking at him in the dim light, “He is quite 
the picture of Evelina.” This pet name of aunt Portal, 
which Numa was not accustomed to hear, touched him 
like a memory of childhood. For a long time Mme. Le 
Quesnoy had wished to know the nephew of her friend ; 


but her house was very sad, and their mourning had kept 
3 


30 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


them apart from the gay world. Now they decided to 
receive occasionally ; not that their grief was less deep, 
but because of their elder daughter in particular, who was 
approaching her twentieth year. ‘Turning to the balcony, 
along which rang peals of youthful laughter, she called, 
“ Rosalie, Hortense, come: M. Roumestan is here.” 

Ten years later he recalled the calm, smiling face as it 
appeared in the frame of the tall window, and the tender 
light of the sunset, and the approach of the beautiful 
young girl while re-adjusting her hair which her little 
sister had disarranged in play, and her clear eyes, and 
straightforward look, without the slightest coquettish em- 
barrassment. He felt himself at once drawn to her in 
confidence and sympathy. 

Once or twice, however, during dinner, in the chance 
of conversation, Numa thought he caught in the expres- 
sion of the beautiful profile with the pure complexion 
near him a haughty shudder that no doubt suited the 
vefréjon manner of which aunt Portal spoke, and which 
Rosalie had, owing to her resemblance to her father. 
But the little pout of the partly open mouth, and the 
cold look of the blue eye, was very quickly softened to a 
kindly attention, and a delighted surprise, which there 
was no attempt to conceal. Born and brought up in 
Paris, Mlle. Le Quesnoy always felt a decided aversion to 
the South, where the accent, manners, and landscape, of 
which she had glimpses in her vacation journeys, were 
alike repugnant to her. In this there was something like 
instinct of race, and a subject for gentle quarrels between 
the mother and daughter. 

“JT will never marry a man from the South,” said Rosa- 
lie, laughing ; and she pictured to herself a type that was 
noisy, coarse, and vapid, and like the tenor in an opera, 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 31 


or an agent of Bordeaux wines, with an expressive, 
regular face. Roumestan resembled somewhat the clear 
image of this little mocking Parisian lady ; but his ardent, 
musical words acquired this evening, in the sympathy 
around him, a strength and irresistible attractiveness 
which exalted and refined his face. After a few remarks 
made in a low tone between neighbors at table, — those 
side-dishes of conversation which pass round with the 
pickles and caviare,— the conversation became general. 
They spoke of the last /é¢es at Compiégne, the travestied 
hunts, where the guests figured as lords and ladies of the 
court of Louis XV. Numa, who was acquainted with the 
liberal ideas of the old Le Quesnoy, launched forth into 
a glorious improvisation that was almost prophetic, and 
described the court in the form of a circle, with knights 
and grooms galloping beneath a sky of orange, and rush- 
ing forward at the death of the stag, in the midst of 
lightning, and distant claps of thunder ; then, how in the 
midst of the /é/ a deluge came, drowning the cries of 
“ Whoop, whoop !” and how the monarchical mavrdi-gras 
ended in a splashing of blood and mud. Perhaps the 
piece was not quite new, perhaps Roumestan had already 
tried it at the conference. But never anywhere had his 
tone of rebellious honesty awakened the enthusiasm that 
was suddenly visible in the clear, deep gaze which he felt 
turned upon him, while the sweet face of Mme. Le Ques- 
noy lighted up with a look of roguishness, and seemed to 
ask her daughter, “ Well, what do you think of this man 
of the South? ”’ 

Rosalie was captivated. In the thrill of her innermost 
being she felt the power of that voice, and those generous 
thoughts so in harmony with her youth, her love of lib- 
erty and justice. Like the women who at the theatre 


32 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


always associate the singer with his cavatina, and the 
actor with his ré/e, she forgot the part which it was 
necessary to allow the virtuoso. Oh! if she had known 
what nothingness was behind the lawyer phrases, and 
how little the banquets at Compiégne affected him, and 
that it would have needed only an invitation with the 
imperial stamp to make him decide to join these caval- 
cades in which his vanity, and instincts of a player and 
comedian, could be satisfied at his ease! But the charm 
was upon her. ‘The table seemed to her to be enlarged, 
and the weary and sleepy faces of the few guests, a presi- 
dent of the Chamber, and a physician of the neighbor- 
hood, to be transformed. When they passed into the 
salon, the chandelier, lighted for the first time since her 
brother’s death, dazzled her like the sun itself. Roumes- 
tan was the sun. He brought back life to the stately 
mansion, and drove away gloom and mourning, the dark- 
ness that gathered in every corner, and those atoms of 
sadness which float around old dwellings ; he brightened 
the faces of the tall mirrors, and gave color to the deli- 
cious wall-painting that had been faded for a hundred 
years. 

“ Are you fond of painting, sir?” 

“O mademoiselle ! am I fond of it?” 

The truth is, he understood nothing about it; but on 
this subject, as on many others, he had a store of ideas 
and of ready phrases. While the tables were being ar- 
ranged for play, painting was a good excuse for a familiar 
conversation with the young girl, as they examined the 
ancient decorations on the ceiling and some master 
canvases hung on the admirably preserved Louis XIII. 
woodwork. Of the two, Rosalie was the artist. Having 
grown up in an atmosphere of intelligence and taste, the 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 33 


sight of a fine picture, or rare piece of carving, caused her 
strong and thrilling emotions, felt rather than expressed 
because of the great reserve of her nature and that pre- 
tended admiration of society which prevents the expres- 
sion of the true. Seeing them together, however, and 
seeing the eloquent assurance with which the lawyer 
expatiated, with grand professional gestures assumed on 
account of Rosalie’s thoughtful and attentive air, one 
would have said he was some famous master giving a 
lesson to his pupil. 

“Mamma, can we go into your room? I would like to 
show the gentleman the hunting-panel.” 

At the whist-table there was a furtive glance of inquiry 
from the mother to the man whom with an inexpressible 
tone of renunciation and humility she called “M. Le 
Quesnoy:” at a slight sign from the councillor, which 
declared it proper, she in her turn acquiesced. They 
crossed a passage lined with books, and found themselveg 
in the parents’ room, which had the same stately, hun- 
dred-years-old aspect as the sa/ox. ‘The hunting-panel 
was over a small finely carved door. 

“We cannot see any thing,” said the young girl. She 
held up the candlestick which she took from a card-table, 
and with her hand held aloft displaying her fine figure, 
she lighted the panel representing Diana of the chase 
surrounded by her attendants, in an Elysian landscape. 
But with that Canéphore-like gesture which sent from 
her bright eyes a double flame above her simply dressed 
hair, her haughty smile, and lithe, floating, maidenly 
figure, she was more the Diana than was the goddess 
herself. Roumestan looked at her; and, captivated by 
her modest charms and true girl-like innocence, he for- 
got who she was, what he was doing there, and his 


34 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


dreams of fortune and ambition. A mad desire came 
over him to hold that supple form in his arms, and kiss 
that fine hair whose delicate odor intoxicated him, to 
carry away this beautiful child to be the charm and hap- 
piness of his life; and something told him that if he 
tried it she would consent, — that she was his, really his, 
captivated and conquered the first day. O fire and wind 
of the South, you are irresistible ! 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 35 


CHAPTER III. 
THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN (continued). 


Ir ever there were two beings not made to live to. 
gether, these two were the ones. Opposites by instinct, 
education, temperament, and race, with wholly dissimilar 
opinions, they were the North and South brought togeth- 
er without a chance of possible fusion. Passion lives on 
these contrasts, and when they are pointed out it laughs 
at them, feeling itself the stronger; but in the daily 
course of life, in the monotonous sequence of days and 
nights under the same roof, the incense of the intoxica- 
tion caused by love is dispelled, and they see and judge 
each other. In the beginning of their new housekeeping 
the awakening did not come at once,—at least to 
Rosalie. Clear-sighted and sensible about every thing 
else, she remained a long time blind as to Numa, without 
understanding to what degree she was superior to him. 
He was soon his natural self again. The ardors of the 
South are sudden for the very reason of their violence. 
Then, the Southerner is so convinced of the inferiority of 
woman, that when once married, being sure of his happi- 
ness, he establishes himself as a master, like a pacha, 
accepting love as a homage, and finding it very beautiful ; 
for indeed love takes time, and Numa was very busy with 
the new course of life which marriage, his large fortune, 
and high position at the palace as the son-in-law of Le 
Quesnoy, obliged him to lead. 


36 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


The hundred thousand francs of aunt Portal served to 
pay Malmus, the upholsterer, and to wipe out the dreary 
life of a bachelor; and the transition from the humble 
Sricht, on the worn-out velvet bench, near “ every one’s 
old girl,” to the dining-room in the Rue Scribe, where 
he presided, opposite his elegant Parisian wife, at the 
sumptuous dinners offered to those distinguished in law 
and song, seemed sweet to him. The provincial loved a 
brilliant life, with luxurious and epicurean pleasure ; but 
he liked it best at his own house, near at hand, with the 
degree of freedom that permits a cigar and a strongly 
flavored story. Rosalie yielded, and accommodated her- 
self to circumstances, to having the house open and the 
table ready every evening for ten or fifteen guests, who 
were always men, among whose black coats her light 
dress was a bright relief until the coffee was served and 
the boxes of Havanas were opened, when she left the 
place free for political discussions, and the unsteady 
laughter after the dessert of a bachelor’s dinner. The 
mistress of a house alone knows what private complica- 
tions and trouble with the servants are caused by this 
daily display. Rosalie struggled against it without a 
complaint, and tried her best to regulate the disorder 
brought about by the excitement of her terrible great 
man, who disturbed her with his restlessness, and, from 
time to time, smiled at his little wife between two thun- 
der-claps. She regretted only that she did not have him 
enough to herself. Even at the early breakfast of a law- 
yer who was importuned by great numbers during office- 
hours, there was always one friend between them, a com- 
panion whom the man of the South could not do with- 
out, the eternal giver of the reply necessary to the flow 
of his ideas, the arm on which he complacently leaned, 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 37 


and to which he confided his heavy lawyer’s bag when he 
went to the palace. 

Ah! how gladly she would have accompanied him 
beyond the bridge, and how happy she would have been 
on rainy days to go and wait for him in their cowpé, and 
to return with him closely shut up behind the closed 
windows dim with mist! But she no longer dared to ask 
him, being sure that there would always be an excuse, 
a rendezvous in the large hall with one of the three hun- 
dred intimate friends of whom the Southerner said in a 
deeply moved tone, “He adores me, and would cast 
himself into the fire for me.” This was his way of 
understanding friendship. Besides, he had no choice 
among his associates. His easy disposition and lively 
caprices led him to rashly welcome the first comer, and 
as speedily reject him. Every week there was a new 
fancy, a name spoken in every sentence, which Rosalie, 
at every meal, carefully inscribed on the small embel- 
lished card of the menu, and which then suddenly dis- 
appeared, as if the personality of the gentleman had 
been found as thin and as easily effaced as the colors of 
the little pasteboard. 

Among these friends of the moment, one alone con- 
tinued, less on account of friendship than on account 
of an intimacy from childhood ; for Roumestan and Bom- 
pard were born in the same street. The latter was one 
of the household; and the young wife, as soon as her 
wedded life began, found installed in her home in the 
place of honor, like a piece of family furniture, this slen- 
der personage, with the head of a palikare, a large 
eagle’s nose, and eyes like agate balls, in a honey- 
combed saffron complexion seamed like Cordova leather, 
with those wrinkles peculiar to old men on the stage, and 


38 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


clowns, and to every face continually distorted. Yet 
Bompard had never been a comedian. For a time he 
sang in the choruses at Les Italiens, and it was there that 
Numa met him again. Excepting in this instance, it is 
impossible to positively affirm any thing concerning the 
changeable life of this man. He had seen every thing, 
tried every trade, and been everywhere. One could not 
speak before him of a celebrated man, or a famous event, 
without his declaring, “He is my friend;” or, “I was 
there. I have been there,’ immediately followed by a 
story to prove it. And putting these stories together, one 
made amazing combinations. Bompard, in the same 
year, commanded a company of Polish deserters and 
tcherkesses at the siege of Sebastopol, directed the 
chapel of the king of Holland, with the aid of the sister 
of the king, which gave him six months within the case- 
mates at the fortress of La Haye, but which did not pre- 
vent him from following, at the same time, an idea from 
Laghouat to Godames, in the midst of the African Desert. 
All this was related with a strong Southern accent, bor- 
dering on the solemn, with very few gestures, but with a 
mechanical play of the face, like the evolutions of the 
broken glass in a kaleidoscope, which was tiresome to 
behold. Bompard’s present was not less obscure and 
mysterious than his past. Where did he live, and on 
what? Sometimes he talked of a great business in 
asphaltum, of a portion of Paris to be covered with 
bitumen on an economical plan; then, suddenly, full of 
his discovery of an infallible remedy against phylloxera, 
he said he only awaited a letter from the minister to 
receive the premium of one hundred thousand francs, 
and to settle his bill at the little restaurant where he took 
his meals, and whose patrons he had driven almost 
insane with his wild mirage of extravagant hopes. 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 39 


This delirious Southerner was the delight of Roumes- 
tan. He always took him about with him, used him for 
- a laughing-stock, urging him on, warming him up, and 
inciting him to folly. When Numa stopped to talk to 
any one on the boulevard, Bompard, with a dignified 
step, moved aside with a gesture as if he were to re- 
light his cigar. He was usually seen at funerals, and at 
opening nights, asking in a busy manner, “Have you 
seen Roumestan?’”’ He came to be as wef known as 
the latter. At Paris this type of follower is quite com- 
mon ; and all the well-known people drag around after 
them a Bompard, who walks in their shadow, and out- 
lines a kind of personality. By chance, Roumestan’s 
Bompard really had one of his own. But Rosalie couid 
not endure this supernumerary in her happiness, who was 
always between herself and her husband, filling the rare 
moments when they might have been alone. The two 
friends spoke between them a faéois which put her 
aside, and laughed at untranslatable local jokes. What 
she reproached him for, above all, was the necessity of 
lying, and the inventions in which she believed at first, so 
foreign was imposture to her frank, upright nature, whose 
greatest charm was the harmony between her speech and 
thought, apparent in the sonorousness and firmness of 
her crystal voice. 

“T do not like him: he is a liar,” she said, in a deeply 
indignant tone, which greatly amused Roumestan, who, 
in defence of his friend, said, “‘ No, he is not a liar: he 
is a man of imagination, a waking sleeper, who tells his 
dreams aloud. My country is full of such people. It 
is the sun, the accent. Look at aunt Portal, and at me: 
if I did not watch over myself every moment” — 

A little hand protestingly closed his mouth, “Hush, 


. 


40 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


hush! I should love you no longer if, in that respect, 
you belonged to the South.” 

He did belong to it, however; and, notwithstanding 
the Parisian style and society polish which constrained 
him, she could see this terrible South, coarse, illogical, 
and given to set ways, reveal itself. The first time, it 
was shown in religion. On that subject, as on all others, 
Roumestan held to the tradition of his province. He was 
the Provencal Catholic who does not practise, and goes 
to church only to meet his wife at the end of mass, re- 
mains in the back part of the confessional box with the 
dignified air of a papa at a spectacle of Chinese ghosts, 
confesses only in time of cholera ; but would be hung, or 
become a martyr, for that faith whose force he did not 
feel, and which in no way either regulated his passions or 
wis Vices. 

When he married he knew that his wife was of the 
same faith as himself, and that the curate of St. Paul 
bestowed blessings and praise upon them in harmony 
with the tapers, the carpets, and the display of flowers, of 
a first-class wedding. He asked nothing in detail. All 
the women he knew — his mother, cousins, aunt Portal, 
and the Duchess of San-Donnino — were fervent Catho- 
lics. ‘Therefore he was very much surprised, after a few 
months of marriage, to see that Rosalie was not devout; 
and he remarked to her, — 

“Do you never go to confession ?” 

“No, my dear,” she said quietly ; “nor do you, that 
iesees" 

“Tt 1s not of much consequence about me.” 

“Why?” she asked, looking at him, her eyes shining 
with astonishment, so little did she seem to suspect her 
inferiority as a woman. He found no answer, and let 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 41 


her explain it herself. But she was not a free-thinker or 
a strong-minded woman. She was educated at an excel- 
lent boarding-school at Paris, with a priest from St. 
Laurent for chaplain ; and when she left school, in her 
seventeenth year, she continued her religious devotion at 
home a few months longer, by the side of her mother, a 
devout woman from the South, until one day some in- 
ward change suddenly tcok place, and she confessed to 
her parents the restraint and uncontrollable repugnance 
which the confessional caused her. The mother might 
have tried to conquer what she believed to be a caprice, 
but M. Le Quesnoy interposed. ‘“‘ Leave her alone, leave 
her alone,” he said. ‘The same feeling came over me 
at her age.” From that time she was guided only by her 
own conscience. Being a woman of the world and a 
Parisian besides, she had a horror of independence in 
a wife, which she thought bad taste; therefore, if Numa 
persisted in going to church, she would accompany him 
as she had so long accompanied her mother, without, 
however, consenting to a falsehood or to the pretence 
of beliefs she no longer held. He listened to her full of 
amazement, frightened at hearing such ideas expressed 
by her with an energy and maintenance of her moral 
rights that upset all his ideas about feminine depend- 
ence. 

“Then you do not believe in God?” he asked, in his 
grandest lawyer-like tone, with his finger solemnly raised 
to the mouldings on the ceiling. 

“Do you think that possible?” she cried, so frankly 
and sincerely that it was like a treaty of faith, Then he 
fell back on the world, the social proprieties, and the 
fixedness of the religious and monarchical idea. All the 


ladies were devout, — for instance, the duchess, and Mme, 
4 


42 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


d’Esparbés, — and received their confessor at table in the * 
evening. This would have a deplorable effect if it were 
known. He stopped, feeling that he was wasting words, 
and the discussion ended. Two or three Sundays in 
succession, he made a great show of conducting his wife 
to mass, which to Rosalie was the blessed privilege of a 
walk on her husband’s arm. But he quickly wearied of 
the régime, pretended business, and ceased all Catholic 
manifestation. 

This first misunderstanding in no way disturbed the 
household. As if she wished for pardon, the young wife 
redoubled her kind attentions and wise but always smil- 
ing submission. Perhaps, being less blind than at first, 
she vaguely foresaw things that she dared not even con- 
fess to herself; but she was happy in spite of all, because 
she wished to be so, and because she lived in the glamour 
with which the new life, and the revelation of their destiny 
as wives, surrounds young brides, who are still wrapped 
up in those dreams and uncertainties that are like the 
shreds of the white tulle of their wedding-dresses. ‘The 
awakening could not be long in coming. To her it was 
sudden and frightful. 

One summer day, —they were passing the warm sea- 
son at Orsay, on the Le Quesnoy estate, — Rosalie, after 
her father and husband had left for Paris, as they did 
every morning, found that she needed a small pattern for 
the Zayetfe on which she was working. <A J/ayette/ Heav- 
ens! Yes. Very rich ones are sold all made; but true 
mothers, those who are born to be such, love to do their 
own sewing and cutting, and to feel, as the basket fills in 
which are piled up the child’s pretty articles, that they 
are hastening its coming, and that each finished article 
brings them nearer to the hoped-for birth. Not for any 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 43 


thing in the world would Rosalie have deprived herself 
of this joy, or have permitted another to touch a hand 
to the great amount of sewing that had been going on 
for five months, ever since she was sure of her happiness. 
And yonder on the bench at Orsay, where she worked in 
the shade of a large catalpa, there was a display of little 
caps, just large enough for the fist, and little flannel 
dresses and bodices which with their tight sleeves repre- 
sented the life and stiff gestures of early infancy. And 
just this one pattern was wanting. 

“Send your maid,” said the mother. “The maid, 
indeed! Would she know any thing about it? No, no: 
I shall go myself. I will do my shopping before noon. 
Then I will go and surprise Numa, and eat half of his 
breakfast.” 

The idea of this bachelor’s repast with her husband in 
the partly closed apartments of the Rue Scribe, with 
the curtains taken down, and the covering on the furni- 
ture, amused her like an escapade. She laughed at it to 
herself, when, her errands being done, she ascended the 
carpetless stairs of her Parisian house arranged for sum- 
mer, and said to herself, cautiously putting the key in the 
lock to surprise him, ‘‘I have come a little late: he must 
have breakfasted.” 

In the dining-room there remained only the aééris of 
a small epicurean feast for two, and the valet-de-chambre 
in a checked jacket standing before the table, about to 
empty the bottles and dishes. She thought of nothing 
at first but her plan thwarted by her own fault. Ah! if 
she had not loitered so long in that store, before the 
pretty trifles in embroidery and lace ! 

“Has monsieur gone out?” 

The delay of the servant in answering, the sudden 


44 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


paleness of his broad, impudent-looking face, spread out 
between long whiskers, did not yet attract her attention. 
She attributed this to the feelings of a servant caught in 
the act of stealing to satisfy his gluttony. He must say, 
however, that monsieur was still there, and busy, and 
that he would be so for a long while. But how long he 
was in stammering it out! with what trembling hands he 
cleared the table, and set a plate for his mistress ! 

“Did he breakfast alone?” 

“Ves, madame ; that is to say, with M. Bompard.” 

She looked at a black lace veil thrown on a chair. 
The queerly acting man saw it also; and, when their 
eyes met on the same object, it was like a revelation to 
her. Suddenly, without a word, she sprang forward, 
crossed the little waiting sa/on, and went straight to the 
study door, opened it wide, and fell lifeless. ‘They had 
not even locked themselves in. 

You should have seen the woman. She was a worn- 
out blonde, whose forty years were betrayed by a mot- 
tled face, with thin lips, and eyelids wrinkled like the 
skin of an old glove; under her eyes, in violet seams, 
were the marks of a life of pleasure ; her shoulders were 
square, and her voice was harsh. But she belonged to 
the nobility, and was the Marchioness d’Esparbés ; and 
to the man of the South that stood for every thing, the 
escutcheon concealing the woman. Separated from her 
husband by a scandalous law-suit, in trouble with her 
family and the great houses of the faubourg, Mme. 
d’Esparbés rallied for the empire, opened a political and 
diplomatic sa/on, which was lightly polished, and where 
the most noted personages of that time came without 
their wives ; then, after two years of intrigue, when she 
had created a party, and secured influence. she thought 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 45 


of making an appeal. Roumestan, who had pleaded for 
her in the first instance, could hardly refuse to follow her. 
He hesitated, however, on account of very well-known 
opinions. But the marchioness attacked him in such a 
manner, and the vanity of the lawyer was so flattered by 
it, that all his resistance gave way. And now, the time 
of appeal being near, they saw each other every day, 
sometimes at his house, and sometimes at hers, and were 
carrying on the business vigorously, by double entry. 

Rosalie came near dying on account of this horrible 
discovery, which suddenly attacked her when in the 
sensitive, painful state of a woman about to become a 
mother, and bearing within her two hearts to suffer. 

The child died, and the mother survived. When, 
after three days of prostration, she regained her mem- 
ory, which brought back her anguish, she was overcome 
with a weeping-fit, —a bitter flood of tears that nothing 
could check. Without a cry or complaint, when she 
ceased to weep at the treachery of the friend and 
husband, her tears increased at the sight of the empty 
cradle, where rested, alone, the treasures of the /ayetée 
under curtains of transparent blue. Poor Numa was 
in almost as great despair. This great hope of a littie 
Roumestan, the “elder son ” in provincial families being 
always the most distinguished, destroyed by his own 
fault, the pale face of his wife marked with an expres- 
sion of renunciation, the chagrin repressed between 
clinched teeth and smothered sobs, rent his heart. 
They were very unlike his own manifestations, and the 
coarse sensibility which he showed on the surface, as he 
sat at the foot of the bed of his victim, his eyes swollen 
with tears, and his lips trembling, “ Rosalie, come now, 


come,” spoken with the Southern accent, which so read- 
4 


46 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


ily took a pitying tone. Beneath it one could under- 
stand: “ Do not grieve, my poor beast. Is it worth the 
trouble? Does it prevent me from loving you?” 

And it was true that he loved her as much as his light 
nature would permit of a lasting attachment. He could 
not think of any one but herself keeping his house, and 
caring for and nursing him. He said, very artlessly, “I 
need devotion near me,” and took good care that it 
should be the most complete and amiable that he could 
desire ; and the idea of losing it frightened him. Was 
not that love? 

Alas! Rosalie imagined something quite different. 
Her life was destroyed, her idol fallen, and her confi- 
dence forever lost. And yet she pardoned through pity, 
like a mother who yields to the child that cries, and 
humiliated herself for the dignity of their name, for the 
sake of her father, whose name would also have been 
sullied by the scandal of a separation, and because her 
family believed she was happy, and she could not destroy 
their illusion. For example, this pardon so generously 
granted, she warned him he could not depend upon if 
he renewed the outrage, — never again, or their two lives 
would become cruelly and forever separated before every 
one. ‘This was indicated with a tone and look in which 
a woman’s pride took its revenge against social pro- 
prieties and trammels. Numa understood, and swore 
sincerely never to do wrong again. He shuddered also 
at having risked his happiness, and the repose which he 
so greatly valued, for a pleasure that gratified only his 
vanity. The relief of being rid of his great lady, the 
marchioness with the stout frame, who, apart from her 
escutcheon, pleased him little more than “ 7anctenne-a- 
zous”’ of the Café Malmus, and of no longer having 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 4Y 


letters to write, or rendezvous to appoint, and the knowl- 
edge that he had reached the end of all that hollow, 
sentimental flummery which so little suited his ease-lov- 
ing nature, made him feel almost as radiant as did the 
clemency of his wife, when his domestic peace was 
restored. 

Fortunately, every thing went on as before. Nothing 
in the appearance of their life had changed. ‘The table 
was always laid; and there was the same course of /é/es 
and receptions, at which Roumestan sang, declaimed, and 
strutted about, without suspecting that near him two 
large eyes, wide open, and seeing clearer from the tears 
she had shed, were watching. She understood, now, that 
her great man was full of gestures and phrases, kind and 
generous by moods, full of caprice, ostentation, and hav- 
ing a coquettish desire to please. She felt the want of 
depth of his nature, which was unreliable in its convic- 
tions as in its hatred ; underneath all, she was frightened 
for herself and for him, at the weakness concealed under 
high-sounding words and a loud voice,—a weakness 
that made her indignant, but at the same time attached 
her to him on account of his need of maternal protec- 
tion, through which a wife maintains her devotion when 
love has gone. Always ready to yield, to devote herself 
in spite of treachery, she had only one secret fear, — that 
he might become discouraged. 

Being clear-sighted, Rosalie quickly perceived the 
change that had taken place in her husband’s opinions. 
His relations with the faubourg became cooler. The 
nankeen waistcoat of the old Sagnier, and the flew7-de- 
4ys on his cravat-pin, no longer inspired him with the 
same veneration. He found this great mind failing. It 
was his drowsy ghost that ruled at the Chamber, and 


48 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


somewhat reminded one of the Legitimacy and its tor- 
pors, akin to death. Thus Numa changed to the other 
side quite slowly, and partly opened his door to the 
Imperialist notabilities whom he met in the salon of 
Mme. d’Esparbés, whose influence had prepared this 
veering about. “Take care of your great man. _ I 
think he is moulting,” said the counsellor to his daughter 
one day, when the jesting spirit of the lawyer found 
amusement at table at the course of Froshdurf, whom he 
compared to Don Quixote’s wooden Pegasus, motion- 
less, and riveted to the spot, while his knight, with ban- 
daged eyes, fancied he was taking a long voyage in 
mid-air. 

She did not have to question him long. Concealing 
as well as he could his falsehoods, — which he disdained 
to support by complications or finesse, —he preserved 
an abandon and ingenuity which freed him all at once. 
Entering his study one morning, she surprised him very 
much absorbed in the composition of a letter ; and, lean- 
ing her head down to his, she said, “To whom are you 
writing?’ He stammered, tried to find something to 
say, and, feeling moved by this persistent look as by his 
conscience, he had an impulse of forced frankness. It 
was written in a brief, emphatic style, such as is seen in 
the courts accompanied by gesticulations and the move- 
ment of flowing sleeves. It was a letter to the Emperor 
in which he accepted the post of councillor of state. It 
began thus : — 

“A Vendean from the South, educated in the monarchical faith, 
and in the reverent worship of the past, I do not intend to forfeit 
honor or conscience ” — 

“You will not send that,” she said quickly. 

He began by growing excited, rude, and talking loudly, 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 49 


like a true dourgeois from Aps discussing with his family. 
Why was she meddling at this late day? What did she 
mean by it? Did he torment her about the shape of her 
hats, or the cut of her new dresses? he thundered out 
as to an audience, at the silent, almost scornful calm- 
ness of Rosalie, who let all this violence, which was all 
that was left of a will previously destroyed, and now at 
her mercy, pass unnoticed. A crisis like this which 
weakens and disarms is like a defeat to excitable persons. 

“You must not send that letter,” she resumed: “it 
would belie your life and promises.” 

“Promises? To whom?” 

“To me. Do you remember how we became ac- 
quainted, and how you gained my heart with your rebel- 
lion, and your strong indignation against the imperial 
masquerade? And I cared even less for your opinions 
than for a fixed and upright line of conduct and a manly 
will that I admired in you.” 

He defended himself. Must he, then, be chilled for- 
ever in a cold, lifeless party, an abandoned camp buried 
in snow? 

He did not go to the Empire, but the Empire came 
to him. The Emperor was an excellent man, full of 
ideas, and far superior to those who surrounded him. 
Every excuse was given for his defection; but Rosalie 
would not accept any of them, and showed him his want 
of wisdom in breaking his word. ‘You do not under- 
stand how anxious all those men are, and how they feel 
the ground undermined and hollow beneath them. The 
least shock, a detached stone, and to what a depth every 
thing crumbles!” 

She particularized, went into details, and summed up 
the after-dinner speeches which a silent woman collects 


50 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


and meditates upon when the men sitting apart in groups 
leave their wives, intelligent or otherwise, to languish in 
commonplace conversations, which the subjects of toilets 
and worldly slander do not always suffice to make lively. 
Roumestan was astonished. Droll little woman! Where 
had she picked up what she was now saying? He did 
not know that she was so wise; and, in one of those 
sudden changes which make these extreme characters 
attractive, he took in both hands her reasoning little face, 
so charming, however, in its youthful brilliancy, and, cov- 
ering it with a shower of tender kisses, said, “You are 
right, a hundred times right. Just the reverse must be 
written.” He was going to tear up his rough draught ; 
but there was an opening phrase that pleased him, and 
might serve if modified a little, as follows : — 

“A Vendean of the South, educated in the monarchical faith, 
and in the respectful worship of the past, I should believe I were 
failing in honor and conscience were I to accept the post that your 
Majesty ” — 

This refusal, very polite but very firm, published by the 
Legitimist newspapers, would bring Roumestan a new situ- 
ation, and make his name the synonyme of incorrupti- 
ble fidelity. ‘Not to be rent,” said the “ Charivari,” in 
an amusing caricature showing the toga of the great 
lawyer violently disputed for, and torn between all the 
parties. Some time after, the Empire fell ; and, when the 
Assembly of Bordeaux re-united, Numa Roumestan had 
to choose between three departments of the South that 
had elected him deputy solely because of his letter. His 
first speeches, delivered with rather breathless eloquence, 
would soon have made him chief of every party of the 
Right. It was not the small change of old Sagnier they 
had there. In this time of mixed races, pure blood is 


THE WRONG SIDE OF A GREAT MAN. 52 


rare ; and the new leader triumphed in the benches of 
the Chamber as easily as formerly on the lounges of father 
Malmus. Counsellor-general of his department, the idol 
of the whole South, elevated still more by the magnifi- 
cent situation of his late father-in-law, the first president 
in the Court of Appeal after the fall of the Empire, 
Numa was evidently destined some day to become a 
minister. Meanwhile, a great man to every one except- 
ing his wife, he displayed his new glory between Paris, 
Versailles, and Provence, the while amiable and familiar, 
and a jolly companion who carried his glory with him on 
his journey, but willingly left it in a box like an opera-hat. 


52 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER IV. 
AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. — MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 


Maison Porta, where the great man from Aps re- 
sides during his stay in Provence, counts among the 
curiosities of the place. It figures in the Joanne guide 
with the Temple of Juno, the amphitheatres, the old thea- 
tre, and the tower of the Antonines, former vestiges of 
Roman rule, of which the city is very proud, and which it 
keeps in good order. But it is not the heavy arched rear 
gateway of the old provincial dwelling, dented with very 
large nail-heads which strengthen it, nor the tall windows 
bristling with a thicket of railings, nor the pompous iron 
spikes, which one shows to strangers, but a narrow corbel 
balcony with an iron railing on the first story above the 
porch. From it Roumestan speaks, and shows himself 
to the crowd when he arrives ; and the whole town could 
bear witness that the heavy fist of the orator was sufficient 
to give those capricious curves and peculiar bulges to the 
balcony that formerly was as straight asa rule. “ Zé, ve / 
Our Numa has kneaded iron,” they tell you, with their 
eyes standing out from their heads, and with a rolling of 
the r—fetrrri le ferry —which does not permit the 
shadow of a doubt. The race of the land of Aps is proud 
and good-natured, and possesses a liveliness of impression, 
and an intemperance of language, of which aunt Portal, 
a true type of the local dourgeotsie, gives a complete idea. 
She is very stout and apoplectic, the blood having set- 


AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. 53 


tled in the drooping cheeks which are the color of wine- 
dregs in contrast with the skin of an ancient blonde, to 
judge by the very white neck and forehead, where beau- 
tiful, carefully-curled coils of dead-silver hair project 
from a cap of mauve ribbon. She wears a corsage but- 
toned crosswise ; yet she is imposing, and has a majes- 
tic air and agreeable smile. Such is Mme. Portal at 
first sight in the dim light of her sa/on, that is always 
tightly closed, according to the Southern fashion. She 
might be called a family portrait of an old marchioness 
of Mirabeau, and is in keeping with that ancient dwell- 
ing built a hundred years ago by Gonzague Portal, the 
master councillor in the parliament of Aix. One still 
finds in Provence houses of this kind, and people of for- 
mer times, as if through these high-panelled doors the 
last century had passed, and left in the opening a part 
of its furbelowed dress. But in talking with the aunt, if 
you are so unfortunate as to pretend that the Protestants 
are equal to the Catholics, or that Henry V. is not just 
about ascending the throne, the old portrait starts vio- 
lently from its frame, and, with the veins of her neck 
swollen, and with nervous hands deranging by the hand- 
ful the beautiful order of her smooth coils of hair, falls 
into a frightful anger, interspersed with oaths, threats, and 
curses, and into one of those angry fits that are famous 
in the town, and the odd freaks of which are quoted. 
At a sotrée at her house, when the servant upsets a salver 
laden with glasses, aunt Portal screams, becomes gradu- 
ally excited, and from reproaches and lamentations 
reaches a violent delirium in which indignation fails to 
find words to express itself. Then, strangling with what 
was left to say, and unable to strike the awkward servant, 
who prudently flies, she draws her silk skirt over her head, 


54 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


hides behind it, and smothers in it her grumbling and 
angry grimaces, indifferent to showing her guests the 
white starched under-attire of a stout lady. 

In any other place in the world she would have been 
treated as a crazy woman; but at Aps, the country of 
explosive hot-heads, Mme. Portal is merely thought harsh 
in speech. It is true that when crossing Cavalerie Place 
in peaceful afternoons, when the song of the locusts 
and a few chords of the piano alone enliven the cloister- 
like silence of the town, one hears strange exclamations 
from the lady, betrayed by the arches of the ancient 
dwelling, while she is shaking and stirring up her people : 
“Monster! assassin! bandit! robber of priests’ cloth- 
ing! I will cut your arm off! I will skin you!” And 
doors slam, banisters tremble under the high, sonorous, 
whitewashed vaults ; and windows noisily open, as if to 
permit the tatters torn from the unhappy servants to pass 
out, who none the less continue their duties, being ac- 
customed to these storms, and knowing well that it is 
only her way of talking. In short, she is an excellent 
woman, passionate and generous, with that desire of 
pleasing, of devoting herself, and walking her feet off for 
others, which is one of the traits of the race ; the good 
results of which Numa, more than any one, had experi- 
enced. Since his nomination as a deputy, the house in 
the Cavalerie Place was presented to him, his aunt sim- 
ply reserving the right to live in it until her death. And 
what a fé¢e for her was the arrival of her Parisians, the 
excitement of music, serenades, receptions, and visits 
with which the presence of the great man enlivened her 
solitary life, that needed this wild gayety! Then she 
adored her niece Rosalie, from the very contrast of their 
natures, and from the respect and awe which she felt for 


AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. 55 
the daughter of the president Le Quesnoy, the first 
magistrate in France. 

And truly the young woman needed to have peculiar 
indulgence, and that love of kin which she inherited 
from her relations, to endure for two long months the 
wearisome surprises of the disordered imagination that 
was always as unduly excited, and easily moved, as her 
stout body was indolent. Seated in the cool vestibule 
as in a Moorish court, where a close, musty odor had 
settled, Rosalie, with embroidery in her fingers, like a 
Parisian lady who does not know how to remain idle, 
listened for hours to the surprising confidences of the 
stout lady, who was buried in an arm-chair opposite her, 
with her arms dancing, and hands empty, the better to 
gesticulate, and dealing out in a manner to take away 
one’s breath the chronicles of the whole city, and her 
experiences with her maids and coachmen, whom she 
represented to be perfection or monsters, according to 
occasion or to her caprice. She became excited for or 
against some one, and, for lack of cause, made from the 
accumulated animosity of the day the most frightful and 
romantic accusations, and dark and venomous inventions 
with which her head, like the “ Annals of the Propagation 
of the Faith,” was filled. But Rosalie, by living near her 
Numa, had become accustomed to this exaggeration, 
and frenzy of words. She listened to it dreamily, with- 
out asking herself why she, who was so reserved and dis- 
creet, had entered into such a family of comedians so 
profuse in phrases, and so overflowing with gestures ; and 
the story had to be very severe to make her check her 
with an “O aunt!” absently thrown in. 

“Indeed, you are right, little one, Perhaps I exag- 
gerate somewhat.” 


<6 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


But the riotous imagination of the aunt quickly began 
to run on as foolish a track as ever, with an expressive 
tragic or burlesque mimicry, which plastered by turn on 
her broad face the two masks of the ancient theatre. 
She calmed herself only to relate her one journey to 
Paris, and the wonders of the passage of the “Somon,” 
where she had stopped at a small hotel, patronized by all 
the traders of the country, and had taken the air only 
behind the stifling glass windows, where it was as hot as 
a melon-bed. In all the lady’s narratives about Paris, 
this passage seemed to be her starting-point, — the ele- 
gant place of society par excellence. 

These tedious and empty conversations were spiced 
with the oddest and most amusing French, in which set 
forms of speech, and dried flowers of ancient rhetoric, 
were mingled with foreign provincialisms ; Mme. Portal 
detesting the language of the country, that admirable 
patois of color and sonorousness which vibrates like a 
Latin echo over the blue sea, and which only the people, 
and the peasants of that region, speak. She belongs to 
that Provengal dourgeotste, which translates “ Pecairé”’ 
by “ Péchere,” and imagines it is the most correct pro- 
nunciation. When the coachman Meénicle (Dominique) 
came to say in the frankest manner, “ Vot baia de civado 
au chivaou.”! “That is right,” she said: “now I under- 
stand ;”” and the man went away, convinced that he had 
spoken French. It is true, that, after leaving Valence, 
the people of the South know only this kind of French. 
Besides, aunt Portal picked up all her words, not to 
please her fancy, but according to the customs of a io- 
cal grammar; pronounced diligence, déligence, and said 
achéter, anédote, un régitre. A pillow-case she called 


I “‘T am going to give the horse some oats.” 


AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. 57 


a coussinicre; an ombrelle, an ombrette ; and the foot- 
warmer, which she kept under her feet in every season, 
a banguette. She did not weep, she tombait des larmes ; 
and, although very enlourdie, she spent pas plus de deme. 
hewre in taking a turn around the city. All her talk was 
ornamented with those small apostrophes, without par- 
ticular signification, with which the provincials sprinkle 
their speech, and with those chips which they scatter 
between phrases to weaken, exalt, or sustain the multiplied 
accents: “aie, oie, aval, acaval, Au moins, pas moins, 
differemment.” 

This scorn of the lady of the South for the idiom of 
her province extends to customs, local traditions, and 
even costumes. As aunt Portal did not wish that her 
coachman should speak Provengal, she would not have 
permitted a servant at her house with the Arlesian fichu 
and ribbons. “My house is not a mas, nora mill,” she 
said ; and she does not permit them to “wear a hat.” 
The hat at Aps is the distinctive and hierarchical sign 
of a dourgeoise ascendancy, and alone gives the title of 
“madame” that is refused to persons of the commune. 
You should see with what a superior air the wife of a 
retired captain, or the clerk of a mayoralty on eight 
hundred francs a year, who does her marketing herself, 
speaks of the height of a huge cap of some very rich 
farmer-woman from Crau ; her own face being squeezed 
into a linen cap, ornamented with real antique lace. In 
the Portal mansion, the ladies have worn a hat for more 
than a century. That rendered the aunt very disdainful 
to poor people, and caused for Roumestan a terrible 
scene a few days after the /é¢e at the amphitheatre. 

It happened Friday morning, during a late breakfast, 
fresh and gay to outward appearance, but rigorously 

5 


58 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


meagre,—for aunt Portal was imperious in her com- 
mand, — alternately placing upon the table big green 
peppers, unripe figs, almonds, and open wategmelons 
resembling large pink magnolias, tarts with anchovy, and 
those little loaves of white pastry that are found no- 
where else, all light dishes placed among the vases of 
fresh water, and the sparkling sweet wine ; while outside 
the air glimmered with grasshoppers and sunbeams, and 
a pale streak of light glided through a partly open win- 
dow in the large dining-room, arched and sonorous as 
the refectory of a convent. In the middle of the table, 
two fine cutlets were smoking on a chafing-dish for 
Numa. Although his name was blessed in congrega- 
tions, and mingled with every prayer, or perhaps for that 
very reason, the great man of Aps had a dispensation 
from his Highness, and was the only one to eat meat in 
his family. He serenely cut the bleeding flesh with his 
own hands, without disturbing himself about his wife and 
sister-in-law, who refreshed themselves, like aunt Portal, 
with figs and watermelons. Rosalie was accustomed to 
it: this meagre religious duty of two days a week, like 
the sun and dust, the mistral, mosquitoes, the stories of 
the aunt, and the Sunday services at St. Perpetua, made 
part of her yearly burden. But Hortense began to rebel 
with all the strength of her young stomach; and it 
needed the authority of the tall sister to close her mouth 
during these sallies of the spoiled child, which upset 
Mme. Portal’s ideas in regard to the education and good 
deportment of young ladies. The young girl contented 
herself with eating these trifles, comically rolling her 
eyes, and wildly sniffing Roumestan’s cutlet, and mur- 
muring quite low, for Rosalie alone, — 

“ How faint it makes me! I have been riding horse- 


AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. 59 


back this morning ; and, after being on the road, I am 
as hungry as I can be.” 

She still kept on her riding-dress, which fitted her tall, 
supple figure well, as did the little boy’s collar her rebel- 
lious, irregular face, which was full of animation from her 
ride in the open air. And, her morning exercise having 
put her in the mood, she said, — 

“A propos, Numa, what has become of Valmajour? 
When shall we see him?” 

“Who is Valmajour?”’ said Roumestan, whose flighty 
brain had already forgotten the tambourine-player. 
“Ves, Valmajour. I did not remember him. I prom- 
ised to see his relations before my departure. What an 
artist he is!” 

He became excited, and saw again the arches of the 
arenas which whirled and danced in his head to the dull 
sound of the tambourine which haunted his memory, 
and buzzed within him. 

And with sudden decision he exclaimed, — 

“ Aunt Portal, lend us the devine. We will go after 
breakfast.” 

The aunt’s eyebrows frowned over two big eyes, glar- 
ing as those of a Japanese idol. 

“The derline ! Avai. Why do you wish to have it? 
Surely you are not going to take your ladies to the player 
of the ¢utu-panpan ?” 

This /¢u-panpan so well expressed the double instru- 
ment, fife and tambourine, that Roumestan began to 
laugh. But Hortense took up the defence of the old 
provincial tambourinist with much vivacity. He im- 
pressed her more than any thing she had seen in the 
South. Besides, it would not be honest to break one’s 
word to this worthy fellow. “A great artist, Numa: you 


cy) 


said so yourself. 


60 NUMA ROUMESTAN 


“Yes, yes, you are right, little sister. We must go.” 

Aunt Portal, who was choking, could not understand 
that a man like her nephew, a deputy, should trouble 
himself about peasants, managers, and people who from 
father to son played the flute in village #é¢es. Absorbed in 
her idea, she pouted her lips disdainfully, and mimicked 
the movements of the musician, with the fingers of one 
hand spread out on an imaginary flute, and tapping the 
table with those of the other. Pretty people to show to 
young ladies! No, there was only one Numa. To the 
Valmajours, holy mother of the angels! And, becoming 
excited, she began to charge them with every crime, and 
to make them a family of monsters, historical and bloody 
as the Trestaillon family, when she perceived on the 
other side of the table Ménicle, who was from the coun- 
try of the Valmajours, listening, with every feature ex- 
panded with astonishment. Immediately, in a terrible 
voice, she ordered him to quickly change his dress, and 
to have the derline ready at two o’clock mangue un 
guart. All the aunt’s anger ended in the same manner. 

Hortense threw down her napkin, and ran to kiss the 
stout woman on both cheeks. She laughed and jumped 
with joy. “Let us hasten, Rosalie.” 

Aunt Portal looked at her niece. 

“ Ah, ca! Rosalie, I hope you will not run round the 
streets with those children.” 

“No, aunt, I shall remain with you,” answered the 
young woman, smiling as if she were an old relative, her 
unwearying kindness and resignation having given her 
that position in the house. 

At the appointed hour, Ménicle was ready; but they 
let him go on ahead to meet them on the Place des 
Arénes, and Roumestan left on foot with his sister-in-law, 


? 


AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. O1 


who was eager and proud to see Aps and the house where 
he was born, on the arm of the great man, and to go 
again with him through the streets to find traces of his 
childhood and*youth. 

It was the hour for a siesta. ‘The city was sleeping 
deserted and silent, and lulled into drowsiness by the 
mistral, which blew in great fan-like whiffs, airing and 
revivifying the summer heat of Provence, but rendering 
walking difficult, especially along the cours where nothing 
impeded its progress, and where, bellowing like a loose 
bull, it could run round the whole city. Clasping her 
companion’s arm with both hands, Hortense walked along 
with bowed head, dazzled and suffocated, and happy at 
feeling herself borne along and stirred by the squalls, 
that came on like waves in plaintive cries and splashes of 
foam. Sometimes it was necessary to stop and cling to 
the ropes strung from one place to another against the 
ramparts on very windy days. On account of these 
squalls, where bits of bark and seeds of the plane-tree 
flew about, and on account of appearing larger by its 
solitude, the cours looked dismal, being still dirty with 
the melon-rinds, litters, and empty baskets, the dédr7s of 
the recent market, as if in the South the mistral alone 
had charge of street-sweeping. Roumestan was in haste 
to meet the carriage ; but Hortense, who was eager for a 
walk, and breathless and embarrassed by the squall, 
which intwined her blue gauze veil three times around 
her hat and made her short travelling-suit cling to her 
and impede her walk, said, — 

“ How different people’s natures are! Rosalie detests 
the wind. She says it scatters her ideas, and prevents her 
from thinking ; but it exalts and intoxicates me.” 


““So it does me,’’ cried Numa, his eyes full of moist- 
d ’ y 
6 


62 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


ure, and grasping his hat that was flying off. At a turn 
he suddenly said, — 

“This is my street: it was here that I was born.” 

The wind was dying away, or rather was making itself 
less felt but still blowing afar off, as one hears, when the 
water is calm, the breaking of the sea against the shoals 
far away in the port. In a tolerably broad street, paved 
with sharp pebbles, and without a sidewalk, there stood a 
little obscure gray house between an Ursuline convent 
shaded by tall plane-trees, and an ancient hotel of mano- 
rial appearance bearing age-incrusted arms and this in- 
scription, “‘ Hotel de Rochemaure.” Opposite was a very 
old characterless building, encircled by defaced columns, 
trunks of statues, and tumular stones graven with Roman 
ciphers, and bearing the title “Academy” in tarnished 
green letters above a green doorway. It was there that 
the illustrious orator saw daylight on the 15th of July, 
1832; and one might have made something of a com- 
parison between his narrow classical talent, his Catholic 
and Legitimist traditions, and this small shabby dourgeois 
house, flanked by a convent, a manorial hotel, and look- 
ing upon a country academy. Roumestan felt moved, as 
always when his life brought before him his personality. 
For many years, thirty perhaps, he had not been there. 
It needed the fancy of this little girlk He was struck by 
the unchanged appearance of every thing. He recog- 
nized on the walls the trace of a shutter-fastening, which, 
when a child, he turned round with his hand every even- 
ing as he passed. ‘Then the shafts of columns, the pre- 
cious fragments of the academy, threw in the same places 
their classical shadows ; the rose-laurels of the hotel had 
the same bitter odor; and he showed to Hortense the 
narrow window from which mamma Roumestan used to 


AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. 63 


motion to him when he returned from the School of the 
Brothers, “Come up quickly, father has come home.” 
The father did not like to be kept waiting. 

“What, Numa, is it really so? you were educated with 
the Brothers ?”’ 

“Yes, little sister, until I was twelve years old. At 
twelve aunt Portal placed me in the Assomption, a board- 
ing-school that was regarded as the most czc of any in 
the town ; but they were ignorant fellows who taught me 
to read in that great barrack with yellow blinds.” 

He remembered with a shudder the pail full of brine 
under the teacher’s desk, in which ferules were moistened 
to render the leather lash more pliable and stinging ; the 
large paved class-room, where on his knees lessons were 
recited, and where as their mildest punishment the schol- 
ars were forced to drag themselves along, extending and 
withdrawing their hand, until they reached the straight 
and stiff brother in his wrinkled black gown, which was 
rolled up on his arms in the effort of striking the blow: 
Boute-a-cuire he was called, because he also busied him- 
self in the kitchen. He remembered how the blow, dealt 
with a grunt by the dear brother, made his little inky 
fingers tingle with pain. As Hortense became indignant 
at the brutality of these punishments, Roumestan related 
others more cruel ; for instance, it was necessary to sweep 
with lappings of the tongue the freshly watered floor, its 
dust having become mud, and rasping the tender palate 
of the guilty boys. 

“Tt is frightful. And you defend those people? You 
speak in their behalf at the Chamber !” 

“ Ah, my child ! that is politics,” said Roumestan, with- 
out becoming excited. While talking they were follow- 
ing a labyrinth of dark lanes of Oriental aspect, where old 


64 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


women were sleeping on the stone steps before their 
door ; and other streets less gloomy, across which broad 
strips of printed calico with the signs ‘ Haberdashery,” 
“Drapery,” and “ Boots and Shoes,” rustled and swayed 
in the wind. They thus reached what in Aps is called 
the “ Alacette,” a square of asphaltum melting in the sun, 
and surrounded by stores closed and silent at that hour, 
by the side of which, in the short shadows of the walls, 
bootblacks were snoring, with their heads bowed over 
their blacking-boxes, and their limbs stretched out as if 
they were drowned persons, — waifs of the tempest that 
had shaken the town. An unfinished building adorned 
the middle of the “ placet/e.”” Hortense wishing to know 
what that white and unoccupied block of marble was 
waiting for, Roumestan, with a rather embarrassed smile, 
answered, as he hastened his steps, “ For a complete his- 
tory.” The municipality of Aps had voted for a statue 
of himself; but, the Liberals of the avant-garde having 
greatly disapproved of this apotheosis to a living person, 
his friends dared go no farther. The statue was all ready, 
and they were probably waiting for his death to erect it. 
Certainly it is glorious to think that your funeral will 
have a civic solemnization, and that one will fall only to 
be raised again in marble or bronze; but this empty 
pedestal, dazzling in the sunlight, gave Roumestan, every 
time that he passed it, the impression of a family tomb, 
and it needed the sight of the arena to drive away his 
gloomy ideas. The old amphitheatre divested of the 
noisy animation of Sunday, and having recovered its 
solemn aspect of useless and pretentious ruins, was seen 
through the close grating with its broad, cold, damp cor- 
ridors, where the sun fell in spots, and where the stones 
were becoming loosened by the footsteps of centuries. 


AN AUNT FROM THE SOUTH. 65 


“ How sad it is!” said Hortense, missing Valmajour’s 
tambourine ; but it was not sad to Numa. ‘The happiest 
days of his childhood filled with joy and hope had been 
spent there. Oh the Sundays of the bull-fight, the loiter- 
tering around fences with other children as poor as he, 
none of them having a ten-cent piece to purchase a 
ticket! The burning afternoon sun presenting their for- 
bidden pleasure in a mirage, they looked at what little 
the solid walls allowed them to see,—a corner of the 
circus, the legs of the bull-fighters enclosed in bright 
stockings, the furious hoofs of the beasts, and the dust 
of the combat rising with the shouts, laughter, bravos, 
bellowing, and roaring from the crowded building. The 
desire to enter became too great. ‘Then the boldest would 
watch the moment when the sentinel moved away, and, 
with a slight effort, would slip between two bars. “I 
always passed through,” said Roumestan beamingly ; and 
the whole story of his life was resumed in these two 
words. Whether by chance or skill, however small the 
space in a fence, the Southerner always passed through. 

“T can’t help it,” he added with a sigh: “I was more 
slender then than now;” and his eyes wandered with a 
comical expression of regret from the close railing of the 
arcades to the broad white waistcoat which fitted close 
to the figure of a man of forty years. 

Behind the vast building, the JerZine, sheltered from 
the wind and sun, was awaiting him. He had to awaken 
Ménicle, who, wrapped in his heavy royal-blue surtout, 
was asleep on the box between two baskets of provisions ; 
but, before entering, Roumestan pointed out to his sister- 
in-law an old inn in the distance, “ Au Petit-Saint-Jean, 
stage and express office,” of which the white masonry and 
broad open sheds filled a corner in the Place des Arénes, 


66 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


and were encumbered with unharnessed dusty stages, and 
rural see-saw carts with shafts in the air, under their gray 
awnings. 

“Look there, little sister,’ he said with emotion. “It 
was there I set out for Paris, twenty-one years ago. We 
had no railroad then. People took the stage to Montéli- 
mart, then the Rhone. Heavens! how glad I was, and 
how your great Paris frightened me! It was evening, I 
remember.” 

He spoke quickly, without arranging his words in 
order, but according as his thoughts pressed on him. 

“Tt was ten o’clock of an evening in November. How 
bright the moon was! The conductor, named Fouque, 
was a great person. While he was harnessing, we 
walked up and down with Bompard,— you know Bom- 
pard well. We were already great friends. He was, or 
at least he imagined he was, a student of pharmacy, and 
expected to meet me. We planned together, and in- 
dulged in dreams of the future, to make the journey seem 
shorter. Meanwhile he, being older, encouraged me, and 
gave me advice. My fear was wholly of being ridiculous. 
Aunt Portal had made me for the journey a large cloak 
called a raglan. I was a little anxious about aunt Por- 
tal’s raglan. Then Bompard made me walk before him. 
Té, I still see my shadow by my side; an1 gravely, with 
that way of his, he would say to me, ‘ You will do, my 
good fellow: you are not ridiculous.’ Ah, youth, youth !” 

Hortense, who now feared that she would never leave 
this town where the great man found an eloquent cause 
for delay under every stone, pushed him gently towards 
the derline. 

“Suppose we get in, Numa: we can talk just as well 
on the way.” 


VALMAFOUR 67 


CHAPTER V. 
VALMAJOUR. 


From the town of Aps to the mountain of Cordova 
the journey is little more than two hours long, especially 
when the wind is behind. Harnessed to its two old Ca- 
margue horses, the Jerv/ine went on of itself, pushed along 
by the south wind, which shook and raised it, depressing 
and swelling its leather hood in the manner of a sail. 
Here it no longer roared as around the ramparts and 
under the arches of the posterns; but blew freely, and 
unimpeded drove before it the undulating verdure of 
the wide plain, where a few remote cottages and an iso- 
lated farm, a bit of gray color in a cluster of greenery, 
seemed like a village scattered by the tempest. It swept 
along a gust of smoke across the sky, in rapid sprays 
over the tall corn and olive fields, making their silver 
leaves glitter ; and with backward sweeps, and raising in 
white waves the dust grating under the wheels, it beat 
down the rows of closely-set cypresses, and the Spanish 
reeds with their long rustling leaves, and caused the 
illusion of a fresh brook on the border of the road. 
When it was still for a moment, as if out of breath, one 
felt oppressed by the heavy summer air, the African heat 
rising from the ground, and quickly dispelling the health- 
ful, refreshing squall that extended its vivifying force to 
the most distant part of the horizon, as far as the small, 
dull, grayish hills which are in the background of every 


68 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


provincial landscape, but which the sunset colors with 
fairy-like tints. 

They did not meet very many persons. Here and 
there was a truck coming from the quarry with a load of 
very large hewn stones, which blinded one in the sunlight ; 
an old peasant woman from the Ville-des-Baux, bending 
under a great basket of aromatic herbs; a mendicant 
monk wearing his hood, with a bag on his back and a 
rosary at his side, his skull bare, moist, and shining as a 
Durance pebble-stone ; people returning from a pilgrim- 
age ; a car-load of women and young girls in their best 
dresses, with handsome black eyes, bold chignons, and 
light floating ribbons, coming from Sainte-Baume or 
Notre-Dame-de-Lumiere. Well, the mistral gave to al! 
this —to the hard labor, the poverty, and superstition of 
the country —the same glow of health and good humor, 
gathering and mingling together the “da, hue /” of the 
wagoners, and the bells and the blue glass rings on the 
animals, the chants of the monk, the shrill canticles of 
the pilgrims, and the popular refrain which Roumestan, 
excited by the native air, spouted with grand lyric ges- 
tures, at the top of his voice, and which poured out 
through the two doors, — 


“Beau soleil de la Provence, 
Gai compere du mistral.” 


Then, interrupting himself, he exclaimed,— 

‘“ H[é/ Ménicle, Ménicle !” 

“Monsieur Numa?” 

“What is that hovel yonder on the other side of the 
Rhone?” 

“That, Monsieur Numa, is the Yomon of Queen 
Jeanne.” 


VALMAFOUR. 69 


“Ah, yes; so it is. I remember; poor Yomjon / its 
name is as changed as itself.” 

Then Numa told Hortense the story of the royal dun- 
geon ; for he knew by heart its provincial legend. This 
ruined, mouldy tower above them dated from the Saracen 
invasion, but was not so old as the abbey, of which one 
could see close to it a section of partly crumbled walls 
open against the sky, with narrow windows in a row, and 
a broad arched doorway. He showed her the path, visi- 
ble on the side of the rocky hillside, along which the 
monks went to the pond that shone hke a crystal cup, to 
fish for carps and eels for the abbé’s table. He remarked, 
as he passed, that in the finest situations the reflective, 
epicurean life of convents was established; that they 
passed a lofty, dreamy existence on the heights, but 
descended to lay a tithe on all the wealth of nature and 
the surrounding villages. Ah! the middle ages of Pro- 
vence, the beautiful age of troubadours, and the courts of 
love. Now brambles loosened the stones over which the 
Stephanettes and Azalais had let trail their narrow robes ; 
the sea-eagles and the owls screeched at night where the 
troubadours sang. But did not the clear landscape of 
the Alpilles bear some resemblance to a bouquet of dainty 
elegance, of Italian softness, like a whisper of a lute or 
of a violin, floating in the pure air? And Numa, becom- 
ing excited, and forgetting that he had only his sister-in- 
law and Ménicle’s blue surtout for an audience, launched 
forth, after a few recitals about the banquets or academi- 
cal sittings of that region, into one of those ingenious 
and brilliant improvisations that made him a descendant 
of the gay provincial troubadours. 

“There is Valmajour!”’ suddenly said aunt Portal’s 
coachman, leaning over to point out the height with the 
end of his whip. 


70 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


They had left the broad road, and were following a 
ladder-like ascent on the sides of the Cordova mountain, 
—a narrow path, slippery on account of the tufts of lay- 
ender, the dry perfume of which was exhaled at every 
turn of the wheel. On a plateau, half way up, at the 
foot of a black notched tower, rose the roofs of the farm- 
buildings. It was there that the Valmajours had lived, 
from father to son, for years and years, on the site of the 
old chateau, the name of which had remained with them. 
And who knows? Perhaps these peasants were descended 
from the princes of Valmajour, who were allied to the 
counts of Provence and the house of the Baux. This 
supposition, imprudently uttered by Roumestan, was quite 
. to Hortense’s taste, who thus explained to herself the 
truly noble ways of the tambourinist. As they talked 
about it in the carriage, Ménicle on his box listened 
to them in amazement. This name of Valmajour was 
widely known in the country: there were Valmajours in 
the upper and Valmajours in the lower part, as they hap- 
pened to live in the valley or on the mountain. “All of 
them must be great lords.” But the sly provincial kept 
the remark to himself. And while they were slowly ad- 
vancing through the bare and grandiose landscape, the 
young girl, whom Roumestan’s lively conversation had 
plunged into the depths of an historical romance, in a 
highly-colored dream of the past, perceiving above her, 
near a pillar at the foot of the ruins, a peasant woman 
partly turned towards her, with her hand over her eyes, 
watching the comers, fancied her some princess with hair 
dyed with henna, and sitting on the top of her tower in 
the pose for a vignette. 

The illusion was hardly dispelled, when the travellers 
alighting from their carriage found themselves opposite 


VALMAGOUR. ot 


the sister of the tambourine-player, who was occupied in 
weaving willow baskets for silk-worms. She did not rise : 
although Meénicle cried to her from a distance, “ V2, 
Audiberte, here are some people to see your brother.” 
And her delicate, regular, oval face, of the color of an 
unplucked olive, betrayed neither joy nor surprise, but 
preserved the intent expression that drew together her 
thick black eyebrows, and firmly united them in a straight 
line below her obstinate forehead. Roumestan, rather 
struck by this reserve, announced himself : — 

“Numa Roumestan, the deputy.” 

“Oh, I know you well!” said she gravely, letting her 
work fall in a heap by her side. “Come in a moment: 
my brother will be here presently.” 

When she stood, the lady of the abbey lost her distinc- 
tion. Having a very small figure with a full bust, she 
walked in an awkward, mincing way, that marred the 
effect of her pretty face in delicate relief to the small 
Arles cap and broad muslin fichu with bluish folds. 
They entered. The peasant’s cottage, supported by the 
ruins of a tower, had a grand air, having arms in the 
stone above the door sheltered by a porch of reeds crack- 
ing in the sun, and a large checked canvas hung as a 
portiere as a protection from the mosquitoes. The hall, 
an ancient guard-hall with white walls, and a ceiling with 
hollow covings, and a high antique chimney, was lighted 
only through greenish window-panes and the canvas 
covering at the entrance. 

In this dim light one could distinguish the black 
wooden kneading-trough in the form of a sarcophagus, 
carved in sprigs and flowers, and surmounted by a wicker 
basket, with small Moorish spires, in which, in all pro- 
vincial farms, bread is kept fresh. Two or three sacred 


“2 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


images, the Virgin Mary, Martha, and the Tarasque; a 
small red coppei lamp of ancient form aung on a beau- 
tiful imitation of white wood carved by a shepherd ; on 
each side of the chimney the salt-box and the flour-bin ; 
with a marine shell tc recall the animal kingdom, whose 
pearly substance glittered on the mantelpiece, —com- 
pleted the adornment of the vast room. The long table 
extended the length of the hall, and was flanked by 
benches and stools. On the ceiling was suspended a 
striag of onions black with flies that buzzed every time 
that the fortiere of the entrance was raised. 

“ Be seated, sir; and you must take grand-boire with 
us, madame.” The grand-doire is the luncheon of the 
provincial peasant. It is partaken of in the fields, in the 
very place where they work, under a tree when one is to 
be had, in the shadow of a mill, or in the hollow of a 
ditch. But Valmajour and his father, who worked close 
at hand on their property, came to the house for it. The 
table already awaited them, on which were two or three 
small plates hollowed out of yellow clay, with preserved 
olives, an} a Roman salad shining with oil. In the 
willow shell in which were placed a bottle and glasses, 
Roumestan thought he saw wine. 

“Then you have a vineyard in this region?” he asked 
in an amiable manner, trying to tame the queer little 
savage. At the word “vineyard” she sprang up with the 
leap of a goat stung by an aspic, and her voice was im- 
mediately raised to a pitch of fury. “A vineyard? Ah, 
indeed! Had they still a vineyard? Out of five they 
were able to save only one, the smallest, and even that 
one six months in the year had to be kept under water 
from the cana!, which almost took their eyes out of their 
heads. Whose fault was it? The fault of the Reds, of 


VALMA YOUR. 73 
those pigs, those monsters, the Reds, and therr irreligious 
Republic, that had let loose in the land all the abomina- 
tions of hell!” As she spoke with passion, her eyes be- 
came blacker, and of a murderous black, the whole of 
her pretty face was convulsed and grimacing, her mouth 
contorted, and the knot of her eyebrows gatherea into a 
big seam in the middle of her forehead. That she con- 
tinued to be busy in all her anger, prepared the fire, the 
coffee for the men, now rising, now stooping, holding in 
her hands the bellows and the coffee-pot, or burning vine- 
shoots which she brandished like the torch of a Fury, 
was the drollest part. ‘Then suddenly she became more 
gentle, remarking, ‘‘ Here is my brother.” 

The rustic curtain was pushed aside, admitting with a 
flood of white light the tall figure of Valmajour, and a 
little old man with a smooth, sunburnt face, who was 
crooked and black as the clump of sickly vines. Neither 
father nor son was disturbed more than Audiberte by 
the visitors they were receiving ; and, immediately upon 
being introduced, took their places around the granda- 
botre, which was re-enforced by all the provisions taken 
from the derdine, before which the eyes of the elder Val- 
majour, who appeared to be quite a gourmand, lighted up 
as with little brisk flames. Roumestan, who could not 
recover from the slight impression he produced on these 
peasants, immediately spoke of the great success in the 
arena on Sunday. It must have pleased the father. 

“ Certainly, certainly,” grumbled the old man, cutting 
his olives with his knife. “I, also, in my time, won a 
tambourinist’s prize.” 

And in his wicked smile could be recognized the same 
turn of the mouth which the daughter in her anger showed 


a moment before. The peasant woman, who was very 
6 


74 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


calm just then, was sitting near the ground on the stones 
of the fireplace, with her plate on her knees ; for, although 
she was absolute mistress in the house, she followed the 
Proven¢al custom, which does not permit women to take 
their place at the table with the men. But from this 
humiliating position she attentively followed all that was 
said, and moved her head when hearing about the /éze in 
the arena. She did not like the tambourine. “Ah, 
nani! Her mother’s death was owing to it, from the 
angry excitement caused by papa’s music. It was only a 
drunkard’s profession, which disturbed every one at work, 
and cost more money than it brought in.” 

“Well, let him come to Paris,” said Roumestan. “TI 
promise you that his tambourine will earn him money.” 

And on account of the incredulity of this innocent girl 
he tried to explain to her something about the caprices 
of Paris, and how dearly he had to pay for them. He 
told of the former success of M. Mathurin, the player of 
a bagpipe in the ' “ Closerie des Genéts.”’ What a differ- 
ence there was between the Breton bagpipe that was so 
coarse and noisy, made to lead Esquimaux dances on 
the borders of the North Sea, and the tambourine of 
Provence so slender and elegant! All the Parisian ladies 
lost their heads over it, and wished to dance the faran- 
dole. Hortense was carried away also, and expressed her 
admiration, while the tambourine-player smiled vaguely 
and smoothed his brown moustache like a conqueror, 
like a handsome Nicholas, 

“ But, really, what do you think he would earn with his 
music?” asked the peasant woman. 

Roumestan reflected. He could not say exactly. From 
one hundred and fifty to two hundred francs. 

1 A French drama by Frédéric Soulié (1846). — Trans. 


To a 


: 
: 





VALMAFOUR. 75 


“A month?” asked the father with enthusiasm. 

“Oh, no! a day.” 

The three peasants started, then looked at each other. 
From any one but “ Moussu Numa,” the deputy, and 
member of the General Council, they would have thought 
it farcical, a galéjade. But from him it carried weight. 
Two hundred francs a day! foutré’ The musician on his 
part was all ready ; but the sister, who was more prudent, 
would have preferred Roumestan to sign a paper, and 
composedly, with lowered eyes, lest their longing glow 
for lucre betray her, she talked the matter over in a 
hypocritical voice. Valmajour was very necessary at 
home, /écairé. He took care of the property, worked 
and trimmed the vineyard, the father no longer having 
strength. What would they do if he were to leave? and 
what would become of him alone in Paris? He would 
surely suffer. What would he do with his two hundred 
francs a day, in that great city? Her voice became hard 
when speaking of this money which she could not have 
the care of, and could not shut up in the depths of her 
drawers. 

“Well, then,” said Roumestan, “come to Paris with 
him.” 

“ How about the house?” 

“Lease or sell it. You can buy a handsome one when 
you return.” 

He paused at an anxious look from Hortense ; and, as 
if seized with remorse for disturbing the repose of these 
worthy people, added, “ After all, there is something else 
in life besides money. You are happy as you are.” 

Audiberte hastily interrupted him. ‘ Happy? our life 
is very hard, and truly not what it used to be.”’? And she 
began again to groan over the vineyards, the madder, the 


76 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


vermilion, the silk-worms, and all the vanished wealth of 
the count’. They had to run about in the sun, and 
work like satyrs. They would have, it is true, in the 
future the inheritance of cousin Puyfourcat, who had 
been a colonist in Algeria for thirty years; but this Alge- 
ria was so far away in Africa. All at once the astute little 
person, in order to stir up ‘‘ Moussu Numa,’’ whom she 
reproached for having grown too cool, said to her brother 
in a Cat-like way, with her coaxing sing-song intona- 
tion, — 

“ Qué, Valmajour, supposing you play a little air to 
please this beautiful young lady.” 

Ah, sly creature! she made no mistake. At the first 
drawing of the bow, at the first pearly trill, Roumestan 
was again captivated, and made delirious. The boy 
played before the cottage, leaning on the edge of an old 
well whose arched ironwork, with a wild fig-tree intwined 
around it, wonderfully became his elegant figure and 
brown complexion. With his bare arms and open bosom, 
and dressed in his dusty working-clothes, he had even a 
prouder, nobler manner than in the arena, where his 
grace adorned every thing with a theatrical finish ; and the 
old airs of the rustic instrument, made poetical by the 
silence and solitude of a beautiful landscape awakening 
the gilded ruins from their stony dream, floated like swal- 
lows down those majestic slopes, gray with lavender, and 
broken with patches of wheat, dead vines, and of broad- 
leaved mulberry-trees, whose shadows began to lengthen 
as it became brighter. The wind had gone down; and 
the sun, as it set, streamed over the violet line of the 
Alpilles, and reflected in the hollow of the rocks a true 
mirage of ponds of liquid porphyry and of molten gold ; 
and at the horizon was a quivering light, like the tightly 


VALMATFOUR. 77 


drawn chords of a burning lyre, of which the continuous 
chant of the grasshoppers and the beating of the tam- 
bourine seemed to be the resonant tones. 

Silent and enchanted, while seated on the parapet of 
the ancient dungeon, and leaning her elbow on a frag- 
ment of a column which sheltered a stunted pomegran- 
ate-tree, Hortense listened and admired, and her little 
romantic head, filled with legends collected on the way, 
wandered. She saw the old castle rise from its ruins, its 
towers stand up, its posterns become rounded, and its 
cloister-like arches become peopled with belles in long 
corsages, and with pale complexions which the great 
heat did not color. She herself was a princess of the 
Baux, with a pretty missal name ; and the musician who 
gave her the serenade was a prince, the last of the Val- 
majours, in a peasant’s garb. 

So when the song was ended, as they say in the chron- 
icles of the courts of love, she broke from a branch above 
her head a sprig of pomegranate, from which hung the 
flower too heavy with purple life, and held it out as a 
reward for the serenade to the handsome musician, who 
gallantly fastened it to the strings of his tambourine. 


“8 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER Wiz 
A MINISTER. 


THREE months have passed since that journey to the 
Mount of Cordova. Parliament has just opened at Ver- 
sailles in a November deluge, which lowers the misty sky 
to unite with the basins in the park, and envelops the two 
Chambers in humid dulness and darkness, but does 
not cool political anger. The session opens formidably. 
Trains with deputies and senators cross and follow each 
other, hiss and sputter, and shake their menacing smoke, 
animated in their way by hatreds and intrigues, which 
they carry along through torrents of rain; and, drowning 
at this hour in the car the sound of the wheels on the 
iron, discussions continue with the same bitterness and 
the same fury as in the tribune. ‘The most agitated and 
noisy of all is Roumestan. He has already delivered two 
speeches since he entered. He speaks to the committee, 
in the passages, at the station, at the refreshment-room, 
and makes the glass roofs of photograph-saloons, where 
are assembled all belonging to the Right, tremble. Only 
his heavy, restless profile, his large face always excited, 
the curve of his broad shoulders dreaded by the minister 
whom he is about to “fell” according to the rules, as a 
supple and vigorous combatant of the South, are seen. 
Ah! how far away is the blue sky, the tambourines, the 
locusts, —all the luminous scenes of vacation! ‘They 
have gone forever. Numa, caught in the whirlwind of 


A MINISTER. 79 


his double life of an advocate and politician, does not 
think of them a moment: for after the example of his 
old master Sagnier, when entering the Chamber, he has 
not given up the Palace; and every evening from six to 
eight there is a crowd at the door of his office in the 
Rue Scribe, which one enters as he would that of a lega- 
tion. The first secretary, the right arm of the leader, his 
adviser and friend, is an excellent business lawyer, called 
Méjean, a Southerner, like all who surround Numa, but 
from that part of the South called Cévenol, the stony 
region, which is more like Spain than Italy, and preserves 
in its habits and speech the prudent reserve and good 
practical sense of Sancho. 

Thick-set, robust, and already bald, with the bilious 
complexion of great workers, Méjean performs the whole 
work of the office, puts away the papers, prepares 
speeches, and tries to add a background of facts to the 
sonorous phrases of his friend, his future brother-in-law 
say the well-informed. The other secretaries, MM. de 
Rochemaure and Lappara, two young licentiates, related 
to the oldest provincial nobility, are there only for show, 
and are making their political novitiate at Roumestan’s. 
Lappara, a tall, handsome lad, with fine limbs, and a 
warm complexion and tawny beard, the son of the old 
Marquis of Lappara, a chief of the party in the Bordelais, 
is a good specimen of this type of the Creole of the 
South, boastful, adventurous, and fond of duels and 
escampativos. Five years of Paris, one hundred thou- 
sand francs for “trickery” at the club, paid for by his 
mother’s diamonds, sufficed to give him the accent of the 
Boulevard, and the fine tone of a crisp and golden crust. 
Quite another person is the Viscount Charlexis de Roche- 
maure, the compatriot of Numa, brought up by the Fa- 


So NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


thers of the Assumption, having pursued his law-studies 
in the country under the surveillance of his mother 
and an abbé, and pyeserving from his education the 
ingenuousness and timidity of a Levite in contrast with 
his royal, Louis XIII. manner, both that of a man of 
refinement and a simpleton. 

The great Lappara tries to initiate this young Pour- 
ceaugnac into Parisian life. He teaches him how to 
dress, what is and is not cfzc, to walk with his neck held 
forward, the mouth drawn up, and to sit with his limbs 
stretched out so as not to leave a mark of his knees in 
his pantaloons. He wishes him to lose that innocent 
faith in men and things, and that taste for jargon, which 
ranks him among scribbling clerks. But no: the viscount 
likes work ; and when Roumestan does not take him to 
the Chamber or Palace, as to-day, he remains sitting for 
hours, drawing up contracts before a long table placed 
for the secretaries on one side of the patron’s office. 
The Bordelais has rolled a cushion against the window ; 
and in the declining day, with a cigar between his teeth, 
and with his limbs stretched out, he looks through the 
rain at the smoking, sticky asphaltum, and the long line 
of carriages with tall whips that were grazing the side- 
walk on Mme. Roumestan’s reception-day. What an 
endless throng of people, and how many carriages kept 
arriving! Lappara, who boasts of being intimately ac- 
quainted with the great livery of Paris, announces in turn, 
in a loud voice, — Duchess of San Donnino, Marquis de 
Bellegarde, Mazette, the Mauconseils also. “AA ¢a, 
what is going on?” and turning to a tall, slender person 
who was drying before the fire his knitted gloves, and 
colored pantaloons that were too thin for the season, and 
carefully turned up over cloth boots, he asked, “ Do you 
know any thing, Bompard?” 


A MINISTER. 81 


“Yes, of course.” 

Bompard, Roumestan’s Mameluke, is like a fourth 
secretary, who does outside work, goes after news, and 
parades the glory of the patron through Paris. This 
profession enriched him but little, judging by his appear- 
ance ; but it was not Numa’s fault. One repast a day, 
a half-louis from time to time, was all this singular 
parasite, whose life was a problem to his most intimate 
friends, would accept from any one. To ask him if he 
knows any thing, to doubt the imagination of Bompard, 
proves one to be stupid and ignorant. 

“Yes, gentlemen, and something very serious.” 

“What is it?” 

“Some one has just fired upon the marshal.” 

There was consternation for a moment. 

The young men looked at each other and at Bompard, 
then at Lappara, who, stretched out on his cushion, 
quietly asks, — 

“Where is your asphaltum, my good fellow?” 

“Ah! vai, the asphaltum. I have a better project.” 
And, without becoming astonished at the slight effect 
produced by the marshal’s assassination, he relates his 
new plan. 

“Tt is a superb one, and very simple.” 

It was to sweep away the one hundred and twenty 
thousand francs premium which the Swiss government 
gives each year for federal shots. Bompard in his youth 
fired skilfully at larks. He would only have to practise 
his hand a little, and he would have one hundred and 
twenty thousand francs assured income to the end of his 
life, and it would be easily earned beside. He could 
reach Switzerland by travelling a few days from canton to 
canton, with a rifle on the shoulder. 


82 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


The visionary became animated, and began to describe 
the journey. He climbed the glaciers, descended valleys 
_and torrents, and shook down avalanches, before the 
breathless young people. Of all the inventions of this 
frenzied brain, this was the most extraordinary, and was 
explained with an air of conviction, with burning eyes, 
and an inward fire, that left deep wrinkles on the forehead. 

The sudden arrival of Méjean, returning from the pal- 
ace out of breath, stopped these wanderings. 

“ Great news,” he said, throwing down his bag on the 
table. ‘‘'The minister is deposed.” 

“ Impossible !”’ : 

“Roumestan has charge of the Bureau of Public In- 
struction.” 

“T knew it,” said Bompard ; and, seeing their smiles, 
he continued, “ Parfaitemain, gentlemen: I was down 
there. I have just returned.” 

“You did not say so.” 

“Of what use? ‘They would never have believed me. 
It is the fault of my accent,” he added with a resigned 
candor, the ludicrousness of which was lost in the general 
excitement. 

Roumestan a minister ! 

“Ah! my children, what a sly rogue the patron is!” 
repeated the great Lappara, falling back in his arm-chair, 
laughing, and throwing his legs up to the ceiling. “ Did 
he not manage the affair well?” 

Rochemaire drew himself up as if scandalized. 

“Let us not speak of cunning, my dear fellow. Rou- 
mestan is conscience itself. He goes straight ahead like 
a bullet.” 

“In the first place, my dear fellow, there are no longer 
bullets: there are shells only, and a shell does this.” 
With the tip of his boot he indicated its course. 





A MINISTER. 83 


“Humbug !” 

“ Booby !” 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen !”’ 

Méjean on his part reflected on the singular nature of 
this complicated Roumestan, who, even when seen close 
by, could be judged so differently. ‘A sly rogue,” “ con- 
science itself.’ This double current of opinions was 
found again in the public. He who knew him better 
knew what a background of levity and idleness modified 
the temperament of this ambitious man, who was both 
better and worse than his reputation; but was the news 
about the portfolio really true? Curious to assure him- 
self of this, Méjean cast a glance at himself in the mirror, 
and, crossing the landing, passed on into Mme. Roumes- 
tan’s apartments. 

On entering the ante-chamber where the footmen were 
waiting with fur cloaks on their arms, a murmur of voices 
deadened by the high ceilings and the cumbersome luxu- 
?ious hangings was heard. Ordinarily Rosalie received 
in her little sa/on, furnished like a winter garden with 
light seats and fanciful tables, and with the daylight 
softly flickering between the shining green leaves of the 
plants against the window-panes. It answered for the 
private life of a Parisian dourgeozse lost in the shadow of 
her great husband, too disinterested to be ambitious, and 
remaining outside of the small circle where, though su- 
perior, she was known only as a good person without 
importance ; but to-day the two reception-rooms were 
filled and noisy, and people, her friends and acquaint- 
ances in general, — faces to which Rosalie could not have 
attached a name,—were continually arriving. Very 
simply attired in a dress shaded with violet which set 
off well her slender figure and the elegant harmony of 


84 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


her whole person, she received each one with the same 
smile, which was somewhat haughty, — the 7éfréjon air of 
which aunt Portal formerly used to speak. She was not 
in the least dazzled at her new fortune, but rather sur- 
prised and full of anxiety, which, however, in no way 
betrayed itself. She went busily around from group to 
group, while the daylight was rapidly fading on the first - 
story of the house ; and when the servants brought in the 
lamps, and lighted the candelabra, the sa/on, with its 
rich glittering stuffs, and Oriental carpets with colors of 
precious stones, assumed a festal air. ‘Ah, M. Meé- 
jean!” Rosalie slipped away a moment, and stepped 
towards him, happy at finding again in so large a com- 
pany an intimate friend. Their two natures understood 
each other. The cooled-off Southerner and the sensitive 
Parisian lady had similar ways of seeing and judging, 
and balanced the weaknesses and passions of Numa. 

“T came to assure myself that the news is true. I do 
not doubt it any longer,” he said, pointing to the well- 
filled sazons. She passed him the despatch which she had 
received from her husband, and said in a low tone, “‘ What 
do you think of it?” 

“Tt is a heavy responsibility, but you will be near him.” 

“ And you also,” she said, pressing his hands, and leav- 
ing him in order to speak to new visitors. But they were 
always coming and never going. ‘They were waiting for 
the leader, from whose lips they wished to hear the details 
of the meeting, and how with a movement of the shoulder 
he had jostled them all. Already of the new-comers some 
brought echoes from the Chamber, and fragments of dis- 
courses. There was a general stir and murmur of joy. 
Women especially showed themselves curious and ex- 
cited: under the great hats which entered on the scene 


A MINISTER. 85 


that winter, the cheek-bones of their pretty faces had that 
light-pink fire and fever which one sees on the players of 
Monte-Carlo around frente e¢ guarante. Is it the felt 
hats with long feathers, the fashion of the Fronde, which 
thus inclines them to politics? For all these ladies seemed 
very well informed, and in the purest parliamentary lan- 
guage, waving their little muffs to obtain a hearing, cele- 
brated the glory of the leader. There was only one 
exclamation everywhere: “ What a man! what a man!” 

In a corner the old Béchut, professor in the College of 
France, who was very ugly, with the very prominent nose 
of a scholar projecting over his books, took a text from 
the success of Roumestan to illustrate one of his favorite 
theses, — that the weakness of modern society is on ac- 
count of the place that women and children occupy in it. 
Ignorance and rags, caprice and levity. 

“Well, monsieur, Roumestan’s strength is in this: he 
is childless, and has been able to escape feminine influ- 
ence. What a straight, firm line also he has followed ! 
Not a deviation, not a break.” 

The grave person to whom he addressed himself, the 
master of ceremonies at the Court of Accounts, a man 
with an innocent eye and a little round, shaved head, in 
which thoughts rattled like a dry seed in an empty gourd, 
drew himself up approvingly like a magistrate, as if to 
say, “And I, too, am a superior man. I also escape the 
influence of which you speak.” 

Seeing that people were approaching to listen, the sa- 
vant became animated, quoted historical examples, — 
Cesar, Richelieu, Frederick, Napoleon,—and proved 
scientifically that woman in the scale of thinking beings 
was several degrees below man. “ Indeed, if we examine 
the cellular tissues ’’— 


86 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


It was more curious to examine the faces of the wives 
of these two gentlemen, who, seated side by side, and 
drinking a cup of tea, listened to them ; for they had just 
come from serving a five-o’clock lunch, from which the 
clicking of delicate spoons on Japanese porcelain, the 
warm vapor of the samovar, and the pastry fresh from 
the oven, mingled with the buzz of conversation. The 
younger, Mme. de Boé, by her family influence had made 
the man with the gourd-like appearance her husband, a 
broken-down nobleman ruined with debts, and a magis- 
trate of the Court of Accounts; and people longed to 
make themselves acquainted with the condition of the 
public finances in the hands of this swell who had so 
quickly consumed his wife’s fortune and his own. Mme. 
Béchut, old, handsome, and still possessing large spirit- 
ual eyes and a face with delicate features, of which the 
mouth alone, by a kind of sad downward contraction, 
told of struggles with life and the wear and tear of 
unceasing, unscrupulous ambition, had wholly devoted 
herself to pushing into high places the commonplace 
mediocrity of her savand, and had, by relations that were 
unfortunately too well known, forced open for him the 
doors of the Institute and the College of France. There 
was a complete Parisian poem in the smiles which the 
two women exchanged over their cups. Perhaps in look- 
ing around among these gentlemen many others might 
have been found whom feminine influence had not in- 
jured. 

Suddenly Roumestan entered. In the midst of the 
hubbub of welcome he crossed the sa/on quickly, went 
straight to his wife, and kissed her on both cheeks before 
Rosalie could prevent this rather embarrassing manifesta- 
tion, which was the best refutal of the assertions of the 





A MINISTER. 87 


physiologist. All the ladies shouted, “Bravo!” There 
was more hand-shaking and congratulations ; then an at- 
tentive silence, when the leader, leaning on the mantle- 
piece, began to read the rapid bulletin of the day. The 
grand movement contemplated for a week, the marches 
and countermarches, the mad rage of the Left at the 
moment of defeat, his own triumph, and noisy bursting 
of the people into the tribune, even the intonations of 
his pretty answer to the marshal, — “That depends on 
you, M. le Président,”— and every thing said and done 
was noted and commented on with contagious gayety 
and warmth. Then Roumestan became grave, and enu- 
merated the heavy responsibilities of his post: the univer- 
sity to reform, and all the young men to prepare for the 
realization of great hopes, —the speech was understood, 
and greeted with a hurrah, — but he would surround him- 
self by enlightened men, and would appeal to every 
one’s good-will and devotion. And with eyes full of 
feeling he sought them in the circle that closed around 
him: “An appeal to my friend Béchut, and to you too, 
my dear de Boé.” ‘The hour was so solemn that no one 
asked himself in what respect the dulness of the young 
master of ceremonies could serve the reforms of the uni- 
versity. Besides, the number of individuals of that cal- 
ibre whose co-operation in the arduous duties of public 
instruction Roumestan had asked in the afternoon was 
truly incalculable. In fine arts he felt himself more at 
ease, and no doubt his request for aid would not be re- 
fused. A flattering murmur of laughter and exclamations 
prevented him from continuing. On this subject there 
was but one voice in Paris, even among the most hostile. 
Numa was the proper man. In short, they were going 
to have a jury, lyric theatres, and an official art. But the 


88 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


new minister cut short these dithyrambics, and observed 
in a familiar, joking tone, that the new cabinet was almost 
wholly composed of Southerners ; and that of six minis- 
ters Bordelais, Périgord, Languedoc, and Provence had 
furnished four. Becoming excited, he cried, “Ah, the 
South is rising! the South is rising! Paris is ours. We 
hold every thing. You must decide on your course, gen- 
tlemen. For the second time the Latins have conquered 
Gaul!” 

With his medallion face, and the broad, flat lines of 
the cheeks, with his warm complexion and brusque, free- 
and-easy ways in this very Parisian sa/on, he seemed a 
true Latin of the conquest. At the laughter and ap- 
plause excited by his closing words, he quickly left the 
chimney-corner, like a good comedian who knows enough 
to retire immediately after producing an effect, beckoned 
to Méjean to follow him, and disappeared through one 
of the inner doors, leaving Rosalie to excuse him. He 
was to dine at the marshal’s, at Versailles, and there 
remained hardly time enough to prepare himself and 
give a few signatures. 

“Come and dress me,” he said to the servant, who 
was about to set the table for three, Numa, Rosalie, and 
Bompard, around the basket of flowers, which was re- 
newed every day, and which Rosalie wished to be on the 
table at every meal. He felt quite happy at not having 
to dine there. The tumult of enthusiasm which he left 
behind him, and heard within the closed door, excited 
him to still seek society and brilliant scenes. Besides, 
no Southerner is a domestic man; but the Northerner, 
of cold climates, invented home, and the intimacy of the 
family-circle, to which Provence and Italy prefer the ter- 
races of the glaciers, and the noise and stir of the street. 


A MINISTER. 89 


Between the dining-room and the lawyer’s office, it 
was necessary to cross the small reception-room, which 
at this hour was generally filled with anxious people 
watching the clock, their eyes bent on picture-papers as 
if absorbed in a law-suit. The evening Méjean had dis- 
missed them, thinking that Numa could not give them a 
consultation. One, however, remained,—a tall fellow 
in ready-made clothes, and awkward as a dourgeois sub- 
officer. 

““ Hé! Wow do you do, M. Roumestan? How do 
you prosper? You have reached the place I wished you 
to have.” 

This accent, brown complexion, and simple, authorita- 
tive air, Numa remembered having met somewhere, but 
where ? 

“You do not recognize me now,” said the man. “I 
am Valmajour, the tambourinist.” 

“ Ah, yes! I remember you very well.” 

He tried to pass on; but Valmajour barred the way, 
planting himself before him, and telling him that he 
arrived two days ago. ‘Only, you know, I could not 
come sooner. When one lands a whole family in a 
country with which he is not familiar, it is difficult to 
find lodgings.” 

“A whole family?” said Roumestan, with his eyes wide 
open. 

“ Bé / yes, papa and my sister. We did just as you 
told us.” 

The giver of promises made an embarrassed, scornful 
movement, as always when he found himself confronted 
by a demand for payment of a note that was given with 
enthusiasm, out of the necessity of speech, of granting 


and being agreeable. Mon Dieu!’ He asked nothing 
7 


90 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


better than to serve this worthy fellow. He would con- 
sider and find some way; but he was very much hurried 
this evening. ‘‘ Exceptional circumstances, the favor 
with which the Chief of State’»— Observing that the 
peasant did not go away, he said brusquely, ‘Come this 
way ;”’ and they passed into the study. 

While sitting in his office, he read and hastily signed 
several letters. Valmajour looked at the vast room, sump- 
tuously carpeted and furnished, the bookcases around it 
surmounted by bronzes, busts, objects of art, souvenirs 
of glorious causes, and the portrait of the king, signed 
with a few lines ; and he felt impressed by the solemnity 
of the place, the stiffness of the carved seats, and the 
large number of books, and, above all, by the presence 
of the servant, a correct individual dressed in black, 
going and coming, and carefully laying clothing and fresh 
linen on the arm-chairs. But yonder, in the warm light 
of the lamp, the kind broad face and well-known profile 
of Roumestan re-assured him somewhat. When his 
courier was ready, the great man passed into the hands 
of the valet-de-chambre, and with his leg held out, that 
his pantaloons and socks might be drawn off, he ques- 
tioned the tambourinist, and learned with terror, that, 
before coming, the Valmajours had sold every thing, — 
the mulberry-trees, vineyards, and the farm. 

“Sold the farm, unhappy man?” 

“Ves: my sister was, indeed, somewhat frightened, © 
but father and I held firm. I said to him, ‘What do we 
risk, since Numa makes us leave?’”’ 

Only one as innocent as he would dare speak of the 
minister, to his face, in this unceremonious way. But 
Roumestan did not notice it. He was thinking of the 
numerous enemies which this incorrigible mania for prom- 





A MINISTER. gt 


ising had already made him. What need was there, he 
asked himself, to go and disturb the life of these poor 
devils? ‘The slightest details of his visit to the Mount of 
Cordova returned to him, the resistance of the peasant 
woman, and the remarks he made to influence her to 
decide. And why? What demon was there in him? 
This peasant was frightful. As for his talent, Numa 
remembered little of it, thinking only of the burden of 
all this tribe falling on his shoulders. He heard in ad- 
vance the reproaches of his wife, and felt the coldness of 
her severe look. “Words mean something.” And in 
his new position, at the source of all favors, what em- 
barrassment he would create for himself with his fatal 
benevolence! But the idea that he was a minister, and 
the consciousness of his power, re-assured him almost 
immediately. In such a high position as his, must fool- 
ish trifles still trouble him? A sovereign master of fine 
arts, with every theatre in his power, it would be easy 
for him to serve this unfortunate man. Having risen 
-again in his own esteem, he changed his tune towards 
the countryman, and, to prevent him from becoming 
familiar, solemnly taught him, from his great height, to 
what important dignities he had been elevated since 
morning. It was a misfortune that at this moment he 
was half-clad, with his feet in silk stockings resting on 
the carpet, and looked insignificant but corpulent in his 
white flannel drawers trimmed with pink. Valmajour 
did not seem particularly impressed, the magical word 
“minister”? not connecting itself in his mind with this 
stout man in shirt-sleeves. He continued to call him 
“ Moussu Numa,” spoke to him of his music, and of the 
new airs he had learned. He did not fear any of the 
Paris tambourinists now. 


92 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Wait, you shall see.” 

He sprang forward to bring his tambourine from the 
antechamber, but Roumestan detained him. 

“‘T tell you that I am in a hurry, gué diable /” 

“Very well, very well: some other day,” said the 
peasant good-naturedly. And seeing Méjean approach, 
he thought he owed it to his admiration to tell him the 
story of the flute with three stops : — 

“Tt came to me at night, while listening to the night- 
ingale. I thought to myself, What, Valmajour !” 

It was the same little story he had told in the country, 
on the platform of the amphitheatre. On account of the 
success at that time, he had artlessly repeated it word for 
word ; but he now delivered it with a certain timid hesi- 
tation, and a nervousness which increased every moment, 
as he saw Roumestan transformed before him, under the 
broad shirt-bosom of fine linen with pearl buttons, and 
the black coat of a stiff cut, which the valet-de-chamébre 
put on him. 

Just then Moussu Numa seemed to him to have grown 
tall. His face, to which his anxiety not to crumple his 
white-lawn tie gave a solemn stiffness, was lighted by 
pale reflections from the grand ribbon of the order of 
St. Anne around his neck, and from the broad star of Isa- 
bella the Catholic, like a sun on the dull cloth. Sud- 
denly the peasant, seized with great respect and awe, 
understood that there was near him one of the privileged 
of the earth, a mysterious, almost chimerical being, the 
powerful fetish towards whom vows, desires, supplications, 
and prayers rise only in formal documents, one so high 
that the humble never see him, and so haughty that they 
speak his name only in an under-tone, and with caution 
and fear and the emphatic tone of ignorance, — the 
minister ! 


A MINISTER. 93 


Poor Valmajour was so disturbed that he hardly heard 
the kind words with which Roumestan dismissed him. 
urging him to return and see him, but not until a fort- 
night, when he should be installed in the ministry. 

“Very well, very well, M. le Ministre.’ He backed 
towards the door, dazzled by the brilliancy of the off- 
cial orders and the extraordinary expression of the 
transfigured Numa. The latter was very much flattered! 
at this sudden timidity, which gave him a high opinion 
of the majestic lip, the restrained gesture, and grave 
frown of the eyebrows, which he now called his ministe- 
rial air. His Excellency rolled towards the station a few 
seconds later, forgetting the ludicrous incident in the 
rocking of the cozvfé with the lighted lanterns, which was 
rapidly bearing him to new and lofty destinies. He was 
already preparing for the results of his first speech, and 
planning his famous circular to the rectors, and thinking 
of what the country and Europe would say next day on 
hearing of his nomination; when, at a turn of the 
boulevard, in a bright ray of gaslight, on the moist 
asphaltum, the form of the tambourinist appeared before 
him, planted on the edge of the sidewalk, his long box 
beating against his legs. Deafened and flurried, he 
waited to cross, until there was a lull in the passing of 
the carriages, which were innumerable at that hour when 
all Paris is in a hurry to return home, the little hand-carts 
filing between the wheels of hacks, and the crowded 
omnibuses with the imperials swaying, and the cow- 
herd’s horn ringing on the tramways. In the approach- 
ing night, and the mist which the damp rain disengaged 
from this hot atmosphere and busy crowd, the unhappy 
man, with his eyes cast to the ground, as if they felt 


the weight of the high walls of the five-storied houses, 
ti 


94 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


seemed lost and out of place. In this attitude, he so 
little resembled the proud Valmajour at the door of his 
mas, giving the key-note to the locusts with his tambour- 
ine, that Roumestan turned his eyes away, feeling over- 
come with remorse, which for a few moments cast 
something like a shadow of sadness over the radiance 
of his triumph. 


oe 


THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. 95 


CHAPTER VII. 
THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. 


WHILE waiting to be more completely settled, which 
could not be done until after the arrival of their furni- 
ture, which was ez route by the slow express, the Valma- 
jours had lodged in that famous passage of the Saumon, 
where travellers from Aps and its vicinity had always 
descended, and of which aunt Portal had kept so aston- 
ishing a remembrance. They occupied in the attic a 
sleeping-room and closet, the latter a kind of box in 
which the two men slept, having neither daylight nor air. 
The sleeping-room was not much larger, though it 
seemed to them grand, with its worm-eaten mahogany 
furniture, a wrinkled mothy hearth-rug on the faded floor, 
and a mansard window, which framed a piece of the sky 
as yellow and murky as the long pane of glass in the 
passage which was shaped like the back of an ass. In 
this niche they were reminded of the country by a 
strong odor of garlic and burnt onion, and the savory 
food which was cooking on a small stove. Valmajour’s 
father, who was a great gourmand, and fond of company, 
would have preferred to go down to the /adle-d’héte, 
whose white linen and plated oil and salt cruets inspired 
him with a desire to mingle in the lively conversation 
of the business men, whose laughter reached them, even 
as high as their fifth story, at meal-times. But the little 
Provengal woman was decidedly opposed to it. 


96 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Very much astonished, on arriving, at not finding the 
realization of Numa’s fine promises of two hundred francs 
an evening, which, since the visit of the Parisians, rang 
in her imaginative little brain like the tumbling of piles 
of crowns, and frightened at the exorbitant price of every 
thing, she was attacked the very first day by that mania 
which the people of Paris call the “fear of poverty.” All 
alone, with anchovies and olives, she would have man- 
aged, as in Lent, ¢e/ para; but “her men” had wolves’ 
teeth, longer here than in the country, because here it 
was not so warm ; and she was obliged every moment to 
partly open the bag, which was a large calico pocket 
made by herself, in which rattled the three thousand 
francs, the proceeds of the sale of their property. There- 
fore, when she changed a louis, it was done with an effort, 
with some force, as if she tore away the stones of her 
cottage, or gave the stocks of her last vineyard. Her 
peasant-like, defiant rapacity, and the fear of suffering 
from robbery, which had decided her to sell the farm 
instead of letting it, magnified the terrors of the un- 
known, in the gloom of this great Paris, which from her 
room above she heard rumble without seeing it, the noise 
of which in this busy corner of the market stopped neither 
night nor day, and continually made the glass ring on 
the old salver in her furnished hotel. Never a traveller 
lost in an unfrequented wood clung more energetically to 
his valise than the provincial lady to the bag at her side 
when she crossed the street in her green skirt and Arle- 
sian head-dress, at which passers-by turned round to look 
when she entered shops, where her waddling gait, and 
manner of terming objects by odd names, and of calling 
the heads of celery afzs, and egg-plants mérinjanes, made 
her, a Frenchwoman of the South, seem as lost and as much 


THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. 97 


of a stranger in the capital of France, as if she had 
arrived from Stockholm or Nidjni Novgorod. Very hum- 
ble at first, and sweet as honey, she suddenly at the smile 
of a tradesman, or the rudeness of some one at her ex- 
travagant shopping, had an angry fit which showed itself 
in convulsions of her pretty, girlish, and sunburned face, 
and in wild gestures, and noisy, talkative vanity. Then 
the story of cousin Puyfourcat and his inheritance, the 
two hundred francs an evening, and their protector 
Roumestan of whom she talked, and whom she regarded 
as belonging absolutely to her, sometimes calling him 
Numa, sometimes the mezis¢re, with an emphasis even 
more grotesque than her familiarity, was rolled out, 
and mingled with floods of Aasois and ot? francisée,* until, 
mistrust gaining the ascendancy, the peasant woman 
stopped, seized with a superstitious fear of her loqua- 
ciousness, and suddenly became silent, with her lips 
pressed together like the strings of her bag. 

Circulating through the shopkeeper’s doors, that were 
always open, the secrets of the houses of the neighbor- 
hood, together with odors of meadows, fresh meat, and 
colonial provisions, in a week she became the talk of the 
Rue Montmartre, which is crowded with shops. The 
questions jestingly addressed to her in the morning when 
the change was returned for her small purchases, the 
references to the constantly delayed @éut of her brother 
and to the inheritance of Bédouin, and her wounded self- 
love, even more than the fear of want, excited Audiberte 
against Numa, and against his promises, which she, like a 
true girl of the South, where words fly quicker than else- 
where, on account of the lightness of the air, at first 
justly mistrusted. 


? A language spoken north of the Loire before the fifteenth century. — TRANS. 


98 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Ah, if they had secured a written promise! was her 
constant thought; and every morning, when Valmajour 
left for the ministry, she took pains to feel in the pocket 
of his overcoat for the sealed paper. 

But Roumestan had other papers to sign than this, and 
other things on his mind than the tambourine. He es- 
tablished himself at the ministry with all the bustle, 
excitement of moving, and the general eagerness, shown 
in taking possession of new quarters. The vast rooms of 
the administrative hotel, as well as the enlarged views of 
his high situation, were new to him. To attain to the 
first rank, “ to conquer Gaul,” as he said, was not a diffi- 
cult matter ; but it was difficult to maintain himself, and 
to justify his honors by intelligent reforms, and efforts for 
progress. Full of zeal, he sought information, consulted, 
conferred, and literally surrounded himself with light. 
With Béchut, the eminent professor, he studied the vices 
of university education, the means of extirpating the 
Voltairian spirit of lyceums; and found help in the 
experience of his superintendent of fine arts, M. de la 
Calmette, who had been in office twenty-nine years ; and 
was also aided by De Cardaillac, the director of the 
Opera, who had recovered from three failures to rebuild 
from new plans the Conservatory, the Salon, and the 
Academy of Music. 

The misfortune is, that he did not listen to these gen- 
tlemen, but talked for hours, and suddenly looking at his 
watch, would rise and hurriedly dismiss them. It was the 
hour for the Council and the Chamber. 

“Heavens! What a life, with not a minute to myself! 
Of course, dear friend: send me your report quickly.” 

The reports were piled upon the desk of Méjean, who, 
notwithstanding his intelligence and good-will, had not 


THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. 99 


enough time for daily needs ; and the great reforms were 
left to slumber. Like all new ministers, Roumestan had 
brought his friends with him, the brilliant personne? of 
the Rue Scribe, the Baron de Lappara, and the Viscount 
de Rochemaure, who gave an aristocratic flavor to the 
new cabinet, who were, however, absolutely confused and 
ignorant of every question. 

The first time that Valmajour presented himself in the 
Rue de Grenelle, he was received by Lappara, who occu- 
pied himself chiefly with fine arts, sending at every hour 
expresses, dragoons, and cuirassiers, to take to the young 
ladies of small theatres, in large ministerial envelopes, 
invitations to supper ; sometimes the envelope contained 
nothing, being intended to show the cuirassier, that he 
might relieve the minister of anxiety, after the failure to 
keep an engagement. ‘The baron gave the tambourine- 
player the hearty but somewhat haughty reception of a 
great lord receiving one of his tenants. With his legs 
stretched out for fear of creasing his French blue panta- 
loons, he spoke to him from the tips of his lips, without 
ceasing to trim and polish his nails. 

“Very difficult at this moment: the minister so busy. 
Soon, in a few days. You will be notified, my worthy 
man.” 

And as the musician innocently confessed that it was a 
rather urgent matter, and that their resources would not 
last forever, the baron, in his most serious manner, while 
placing his file on the edge of the desk, requested him 
to put a fourniquet' on his tambourine. 

1 TrRANSLATOR’S Note. —In France merchants sell cakes (wafers) shaped like 
a horn, which are contained in a cylindrical box with a movable cover, on which 
is a tourniquet —a kind of dial, with figures and a hand, as on a watch. Fora 


couple of sous the merchant turns the hand, and the figure at which it stops indi 
€ates the number of wafers (A/a/szrs) one has obtained. 


100 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


A tourniquet on his tambourine? Why? 

“ Parbleu, my good fellow, to make use of it in the 
dull season as a boite a plaisirs.” 

On the next visit Valmajour had business with the 
Viscount de Rochemaure. The latter raised from a dusty 
file of papers, where it had entirely disappeared, his head, 
curled with hot tongs, and conscientiously studied the 
mechanism of the flute, took notes, tried to understand, 
and finally declared that it was chiefly intended for worship. 
Then the unhappy man no longer found any one, all the 
cabinet having gone to join the minister in the inaccessible 
regions where his Excellency hid himself. However, he 
lost neither his calmness nor courage, and always at the 
evasive answers and shrugging of shoulders of the ushers 
opened his light eyes, which still had an astonished look, 
and in whose depths shone that half-scornful light which 
always underlies the provincial gaze. 

“Very well, very well: I will return.” 

And he did return. But for his high gaiters, and tam- 
bourine worn in a strap, one might have taken him for a 
clerk of the house: his arrival was so regular, although 
more difficult every morning. 

Nothing now but the sight of the high-arched door 
made his heart beat. At the end of the arch was the 
ancient hotel Augereau, with its vast courtyard, where 
wood was already piled up for the winter. Its two pairs 
of stairs were hard to ascend under the mocking looks of 
the rabble ; and the silver chains of the ushers, the caps 
with braid trimmings, and the infinite accessories of the 
majestic apparel which separated him from his protector, 
increased his distress. But he dreaded still more the 
scenes at home, — Audiberte’s terrible frowns, which 
made him return in despair. 


THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. ToT 


Finally the concierge took pity, and advised him, if he 
wished to see the minister, to wait for him at the St. 
Lazare station when he started for Versailles. He went 
there, and placed himself among a party in the large hall 
on the first story, that was full of life and bustle at the 
hour of the arrival of the parliamentary trains. Deputies, 
senators, ministers, journalists, the Left, the Right, and all 
parties, were elbowing each other, and formed a company 
as variegated and numerous as the blue, green, and red 
placards which covered the walls. People shouted, whis- 
pered, and watched each other; one stepping aside to 
meditate on his coming speech, while another — the lobby 
orator — made the window-panes rattle with the ringing 
of a voice which never was to be heard in the Chamber. 
One observed the Northern and Southern accents, various 
opinions and temperaments, busy plotting of ambition 
and intrigue, and the noisy tread of an excited crowd 
among whom politics was quite in place in the suspense 
of waiting and the flurry of starting to travel at a fixed 
hour, when a whistle would hurry one on to a long line 
of rails covered with wheels and locomotives, and move 
him over ground from which might come unexpected 
surprises and accidents. 

At the end of five minutes Valmajour saw Numa Rou- 
mestan arriving on the arm of a secretary laden with his 
portfolio, his overcoat thrown wide open, and his face 
beaming, just as he appeared the first day on the platform 
of the amphitheatre ; and he recognized from a distance 
his voice, kind words, and protestations of friendship : 
“Count upon it. Trust yourself to me. It is as if you 
aed 23.5.” 

The minister was then in the honey-moon of power. 
Outside of political hostilities, which were often less 


102 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


violent in parliament than one might believe, and the 
rivalry between fine speakers, and the quarrels of lawyers 
defending opposite causes, he had no enemies, not having 
had time during three weeks in office to weary applicants. 
They also trusted him. ‘Two or three were just beginning 
to grow impatient, and watch him on the way. To these 
he called out in a very loud voice as he hurried his steps, 
“Good-day, friend!” which forestalled reproaches, and 
at the same time refuted them ; and by a familiar manner 
he kept claims at a distance, and left beggars disappointed 
and flattered. This ‘“ Good-day, friend,” was a happy 
thought suggested by his thoroughly instinctive duplicity. 

At the sight of the musician, who came dancing up to 
him with his smiling lips parted over his white teeth, 
Numa had a strong desire to hurl out his defeating ‘‘ Good- 
day ;”’ but how could he treat as a friend this rustic in a 
small felt hat and a gray jacket from which his hands 
stood out as dark as in a village photograph? He pre- 
ferred to put on his “ ministerial air,” and pass stiffly by, 
leaving the poor devil amazed, annihilated, and jostled by 
the crowd that pressed behind the great man. Valmajour 
re-appeared, however, the next day and the days follow- 
ing, without daring to approach him, but seated himself 
on the edge of a bench with a sad, resigned face, such as 
one sees at stations among soldiers or emigrants ready 
for all chances of an adverse destiny. Roumestan could 
not avoid this silent apparition always in his path. It 
was in vain that he feigned not to see it, and turned away 
his eyes, and talked louder as he passed: the smile of his 
victim was there, and remained there until the departure 
of the train. Certainly he would have preferred a rude 
objection, a scene with shouting, in which officers would 
intervene, and which would have freed him. He went to 


THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. 103 


another station, and sometimes along the left bank, to 
drive away this figure of remorse. Thus in the loftiest 
existences there are trifles which are as annoying as gravel 
in a pair of seven-leagued boots. 

Valmajour was not discouraged. 

“ Tt is because he is ill nowadays,” he said to himself ; 
and he obstinately returned to his post. At home his 
sister was nervously watching for his return. 

“ Eh! bé, have you seen the minister! Did he sign 
the paper?” 

What exasperated her more than the eternal, “ No, not 
yet,” was the coolness of her brother, who threw down 
the box in a corner, as the strap cut his shoulder. His 
indifference arose from indolence and carelessness, — as 
often met with in Southern natures as vivacity. Then 
the strange little creature became furious. What was in 
his veins? Would it not come to an end? “Beware, if 
I were to mix myself up init!” Being very calm him- 
self, he let the storm pass by, drew from their case the 
flute and ivory-headed wand, and rubbed them with a bit 
of wool to remove the effects of dampness, and, while 
polishing them, promised to make a better attempt the 
next day, and to try at the ministry, and, if Roumestan 
was not there, to ask to see his lady. 

“Ah, vai, his lady! You know very well that she 
does not love your music. If it were the young lady, — 
yes, the young lady,” she said, moving her head signifi- 
cantly. 

“The lady and young lady are making sport of you,” 
said the elder Valmajour, crouching before a turf-fire 
which his daughter was economically covering with ashes, 
which was always a subject of quarrel between them. At 
heart, through professional jealousy, the old man was 


104 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


not sorry for his son’s lack of success. As all these 
complications and this great change in his mode of life 
pleased his Bohemian and minstrel tastes, he at first re- 
joiced at the journey, and at the idea of seeing Paris, 
“the paradise of women, and purgatory of horses,” as the 
wagoners say; for he pictured houris in light veils, and 
rearing horses prancing about in the midst of flames. 
On arriving he found cold, privation, and rain. Through 
fear of Audiberte, and respect for the minister, he re- 
signed himself to shiver in his corner, grumbling, and 
slipping a word in now and then, with a twitching of his 
eyes ; but the defection of Roumestan, and the anger of 
his daughter, opened for him also the way for recrimina- 
tion. He revenged himself for all the wounded pride 
with which his boy’s success had tortured him for ten 
years, and shrugged his shoulders as he listened to the 
flute. 

“Music, indeed! That will not be of much use to 
you.” 

And he asked aloud if it were not a pity that a man of 
his age should have been brought so far in that Sibérille 
to be left to die of cold and want? And he invoked the 
memory of his poor sainted wife, whom he had, however, 
caused to die of sorrow, — “fait devenir chévre, allons!” 
according to Audiberte’s expression, — and remained for 
hours groaning, with his face red and grimacing, in the 
fireplace, so that his daughter became weary of his lam- 
entations, and rid herself of him with two or three sous 
for a glass of unfermented wine at the wine-merchant’s. 
There his despair suddenly became appeased. It did 
him good to sit around the roaring stove; and the old 
clown with a large nose and small mouth on a small, thin, 
and crooked body, became animated and warmed, and 


THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. 105 


recovered his fondness for the ludicrous, as a performer 
in Italian comedy. He amused the audience with his 
Gascon accent and boasts, and cursed his son’s tambour- 
ine, which was such a bore in the hotel: for Valmajour, 
kept in breath by the attempt at his dédw7z, practised his 
instrument into the middle of the night ; and the neigh- 
- bors complained of the sharp trills of the little flute, and 
the continual buzzing with which the tambourine made 
the staircase tremble as if there were a revolving tower 
on the fifth story. 

“Keep on,’ said Audiberte to her brother, when the 
proprietor of the hotel complained. Nothing more than 
to be told that one had no right to practise music was 
wanting in the way of disagreeable experiences in this 
Paris where one could not sleep a wink for the racket. 
But Valmajour played all the same. The family were 
sent away, however; and to leave this passage of the 
Saumon, which was celebrated in Aps, and which recalled 
their country, seemed to them worse exile, and to be 
going up farther into the North. On the evening of 
their departure, Audiberte, after the daily and fruitless 
trips of the tambourinist, made her men eat in haste, and 
did not herself speak throughout the breakfast, but sat 
with glittering eyes, and the determined air of having 
made a resolve. When the meal was over, she left to 
them the care of clearing the table, and threw over her 
shoulders her long rusty mantle. 

“Tt will soon be two months since we came to Paris,” 
she said with clinched teeth. ‘We have had enough 
of it. Iam going myself to this minister to speak regard- 
ing it.” 

She adjusted the ribbon of her peculiar little head- 


diess, which moved about like an ear-cap, on the top of 
8 


106 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


her wavy hair, and suddenly left the room, her well-waxed 
heels turning up her thick woollen dress at every step. 
Father and son looked at each other in fear, without try- 
ing to restrain her, knowing well that they would only 
exasperate her in her anger; and they passed an after- 
noon in a ééze-d-té/e, exchanging hardly three words, 
while the rain streamed down on the glass; one of them 
polishing his bow and flute, and the other cooking the 
stew over a fire which he made as hot as possible to 
warm himself once for all during the long absence of 
Audiberte. Finally her hurried step, the mincing one of 
an under-sized person, was heard in the corridor. She 
entered with a beaming face. 

“Tt is a pity that the window does not look on the 
street,” she said, throwing off her cloak, on which there 
was not a drop of rain. ‘You might have seen below 
the handsome carriage which has brought me.” 

“ A carriage? You are joking.” 

“‘ And servants and livery. ‘That will make talk in the 
hotel.” 

Then, in the midst of their admiring silence, she re- 
lated her expedition, with mimicry. In the first place, 
instead of asking after the minister, who would never 
have received her, she obtained the address by speaking 
politely. One can have all that one wishes of the sister, 
the tall young lady who had come with him to Valma- 
jour. She did not remain at the ministry, but with her 
relations, in a locality of small, badly-paved streets, with 
odors from the apothecary-shop that reminded Audi- 
berte of the country. It was far away, and she was 
obliged to walk. Finally she found the house, in a place 
where there were arcades, like those around the little 





EO ee eee F 


THE PASSAGE OF THE SAUMON. 107 


place in Aps. How well the kind young lady received 
her, without the least pride, although there was an ap- 
pearance of wealth at her house, beautiful gilding in the 
room, and silk curtains caught up this way and that, in 
every direction ! 

“So you have said farewell: you have come to Paris. 
Where did you come from? How long have you been 
here?” were the questions the young lady asked. And, 
when she learned how Numa made them move about, 
she immediately rang for her governess, a lady who also 
wore a hat, and all three started for the ministry. 

You should have seen the devoted manner and bowing 
to the ground of all those old beadles, who ran to meet 
them and open the doors! 

“Then you saw the minister?” timidly asked Valma- 
jour, while she was recovering her breath. 

“Of course I did. He was very polite, I assure you. 
Poor dédigas, didn’t I tell you that you must get the 
young lady into your hands? She was the one who 
quickly arranged matters, and without an objection. In 
a week there will be a great musical /é¢e at the ministry, 
to show you to the directors. And immediately after- 
wards, cra-cra, the paper and signature will come.” 

The best of it was, that the young lady had just driven 
her down there in the minister’s carriage. 

“ And how she longed to come up here!” added the 
young woman from the provinces, winking at her father, 
and contorting her pretty face with a significant grimace. 
The whole face and skin of the old man, that was seamed 
like a dried fig, contracted as he said, “ Understood — 
not a word.” But he no longer cursed the tambourine. 

Valmajour himself, who was very calm, did not catch 


108 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


the sly remark of his sister. He thought only of his 
approaching d@éou¢,; and, taking down his box, he began 
to play over his airs, to send as an adieu from one end te 
the other of the passage, clusters of trills to florid meas- 


ures. 


RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 10 


CHAPTER VIII. 
RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 


THE minister and his wife were finishing breakfast in 
their dining-room on the first story, a pompous and very 
spacious room, from which the chill was not removed by 
the thick hangings, the furnaces that warmed the hotel, 
or the smoking fumes of an abundant repast. This 
morning, by chance, they were alone. On the table- 
cloth, with the dessert, — that was always well supplied at 
the Southerner’s table, — there was his box of cigars, the 
cup of vervain, which is the tea of the provincial, and 
large boxes with rows of cards of every color, on which 
were inscribed the names of senators, deputies, rectors, 
professors, academicians, and society men, the ordi- 
nary and extraordinary frequenters of ministerial soz7ées. 
Some cards were placed higher in the box than others, 
for privileged guests, and conferred for the first series of 
small concerts. Mme. Roumestan turned them over, 
pausing at certain names, being watched out of the cor- 
ner of the eye by Numa, who, while choosing his after- 
breakfast cigar, discovered on her calm face a look of 
disapprobation and censure at the rather hazardous man- 
ner in which these first invitations were given. 

But Rosalie asked no questions. All these prepara- 
tions were very indifferent to her. Since their installa- 
tion at the ministry, she felt even more apart from her 


husband, being separated by incessant obligations, by a 
8 


TIO NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


too numerous household, and a life so broad that inti- 
macy was destroyed. ‘To these was added the constant 
regret of having no children, and of not hearing around 
her little tireless feet, and the pleasant shrill and ringing 
laughter, which would have removed from their dining- 
room the glacial appearance of a hotel-table where they 
were sitting for a while, with a lack of individuality in 
the linen, furniture, silver, and all the sumptuous furnish- 
ing of a public place. 

In the embarrassed silence of this closing repast came 
stifled sounds and bursts of harmony, to which the ham- 
mering on the curtain and platform, that was being 
nailed below for the concert, kept time while the musi- 
cians were rehearsing together their pieces for the con- 
cert. The door opened, and the head of the cabinet 
entered with papers in his hand. 

“More demands !”’ 

Roumestan became excited. ‘No, indeed! it would 
need the Pope, for there was no longer a place to give.” 
Méjean, without being disturbed, placed before him a 
package of letters, cards, and perfumed notes. 

“Tt is very hard to refuse. You promised.” 

“Indeed, I have never spoken to any one.” 

“See: ‘Ay dear minister, —I1 have come to remind 
you of your word.’ And this: ‘Zhe general told me that 
you had the kindness to offer him.’ And again: ‘Remind 
the minister of his promise.’” 

“T am a somnambulist, then,” said Roumestan amazed. 

The truth is, that the /é/e was hardly decided upon 
when he said to the people whom he met at the Chamber 
and Senate, “You know I count on you for the tenth.” 
And as he added, “quite unceremonious,” one would 
not be likely to forget the flattering invitation. 





‘ 
: 
- 
. 
; 
; 


RENEWAL OF YOUTH. Tik 


Annoyed at being convicted of default before his wife, 
he turned upon her as always in such a case. 

“Tt is your sister with her tambourinist! Great need 
I had of all this tinkling. I did not expect to begin our 
concerts until later, but that little girl was so impatient ! 
‘No, no! at once!’ she begged. And you were as eager 
asshe. Z’azé me fiche, if this tambourine has not turned 
your head.” 

“Oh, no! not mine,” said Rosalie, smiling. “I am 
afraid that this exotic music may not be understood by 
the Parisians. It would be necessary to bring with it the 
horizons of Provence, the costumes and favandoles ; but 
before all,” and her voice became serious, “it is impor- 
tant to keep a promise.” 

“ A promise, a promise?” repeated Numa; “one will 
soon be no longer able to say a word.” And turning to 
his secretary, for he really needed to tease some one, he 
said, “Pardi, my dear fellow, all Southerners are not like 
you, —cold and moderate, and sparing of their words. 
You are not a true Southerner: you are a renegade, a 
Franciot as we say. A Southerner, indeed! A man 
who has never lied, and who does not like vervain!” 
he added with comical indignation. 

“Not so francio¢t as I seem to be, JZ. ¢e ministre,” re- 
plied Méjean, still very calm. ‘On my arrival in Paris 
twenty years ago, I suffered terribly from the native pe- 
culiarities which I possess, —the assurance, accent, and 
gestures. I was as talkative and inventive as” — 

“As Bompard,” whispered Roumestan, who, though he 
did not like any one to mock at the friend of his heart, 
did not himself refrain. 

“Yes, upon my faith, almost as much so as Bompard ; 
an instinct urged me never to say a true word. One 


? 


112 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


morning I was overcome with shame, and tried to <cor- 
rect myself. One can succeed in repressing the outward 
expression of exaggeration by lowering the voice, and 
holding in the elbows. But with one’s inner self, which 
boils over, and will find vent, it is different. Then I 
made a heroic decision. Every time that I caught my- 
self near the truth, it was a warning to speak no more 
that day lest I departed from it: that is how I have been 
able to reform my nature. But the instinct is there all 
the same, underlying my silence and coldness. Some- 
times I happen to stop short in the middle of a sentence. 
It is not because a word fails me—on the contrary! I 
restrain myself because I feel that I am going to lie.” 

“Terrible South! There is no way of escaping it,” 
said the good Numa, sending the smoke of his cigar up 
to the ceiling with philosophical resignation. ‘“ As for me, 
it is through the mania of promising, and the madness 
that I have for throwing myself in the face of people, 
and for wishing them happiness in spite of themselves, 
that it has a hold upon me.” 

The usher interrupted him, calling out from the thresh- 
old in a knowing, confidential way, “MM. Béchut has 
arrived.” 

The minister suddenly showed ill humor. “I am 
breakfasting : do not disturb me.” 

The usher asked pardon; M. Béchut pretended that it 
was his excellency. Roumestan softened. 

“Well, well, I will come. Let them wait in my study.” 

“Why, no,” said Méjean. “ Your study is filled. The 
Superior Council — you certainly know. You are the one 
who appointed the hour.” 

“Then at M. de Lappara’s.” 

“T have taken the Bishop of Tulle there,” timidly ob- 
served the usher, “as you told me.” 


RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 113 


There were people everywhere, solicitors whom he told 
in confidence to come at that hour, that they might be 
sure to see him; and the majority were men of mark, 
whom one should not keep waiting with ordinary per- 
sons. 

“Take my little sa/on. Iam going out,” said Rosalie, 
rising. 

And, while the usher and secretary were going to seat 
or to keep the guests patient, the minister quickly swal- 
lowed his vervain, and scalded himself while repeating, 
“T am overwhelmed ! overwhelmed !” 

“What more does that gloomy Béchut wish?” asked 
Rosalie, lowering her voice by instinct in the full house, 
where there was a stranger behind every door. 

“What does he wish? His position, #. It is Dan- 
saert’s shark. He expects him to be thrown overboard to 
him to be devoured.” 

She quickly approached him. 

“Ts M. Dansaert to leave the ministry?” 

“Do you know him?” 

“My father has often spoken of him tome. He isa 
compatriot, a friend of his childhood. He thinks he is 
an honest man with a powerful mind.” 

Roumestan stammered out several reasons, — bad ten- 
dencies, Voltairian, he would enter on reforms; and, be- 
sides, he was very old. 

“And you replace him by Béchut?” 

“Oh! I know that the poor man has not the gift of 
pleasing the ladies.” 

She gave him a beautiful smile of disdain, 

“ For his impertinence I care as little as for his homage. 
What I cannot pardon in him are his clerical grimaces, his 
intentional display. I respect every conviction and every 


II4 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


belief. But if there is in this world one ugly thing which 
should be hated, Numa, it is falsehood and hypocrisy.” 

In spite of herself her voice was raised, and became 
warm and eloquent; and her rather cold face beamed 
with honesty and rectitude and a rosy glow of generous 
indignation. 

“Hush ! hush !” said Roumestan, pointing to the door- 
No doubt he agreed that it was not very just: this old ~ 
Dansaert rendered great services. But what could he 
do? He had given his word. 

“Take it back,” said Rosalie. ‘Come, Numa, for my 
sake, I beg you.” 

It was a tender command, supported by the pressure 
of a little hand on his shoulder. He felt moved. Fora 
long time his wife seemed to have little interest in his life, 
showing only a silent indulgence when he confided to her 
his constantly changing projects ; and this prayer flattered 
him. 

“Can any one resist you, my dear?” And the kiss 
that he pressed on the tips of her fingers went shuddering 
up beneath her narrow lace sleeve. She had very pretty 
arms. He suffered, however, from the necessity of saying 
to any one’s face any thing so disagreeable, and rose with 
a great effort. 

“Tam here listening,” she said, threatening him with 
a pretty gesture. 

He passed into the small adjoining sa/on, leaving the 
door partly open to give her courage, and that she might 
hear him. The beginning was decided and energetic. 

“T am in despair, my dear Béchut. What I wished to 
do for you is not possible.” 

Of the learned man’s answers she caught only the téar- 
ful, supplicating intonation, broken with loud breathing 
through his flat nose. 





RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 115 


But, to Rosalie’s great astonishment, Roumestan did 
not yield, and continued to defend Dansaert with a con- 
viction surprising in a man to whom arguments had just 
been suggested. Certainly it cost him something to break 
his promise ; but was not all this better than to commit 
an injustice? This was expressing the thought of his 
wife, modulated by musical intonation and powerful ges- 
tures which blew in the curtains. 

“ Besides,” he added, suddenly changing his tone, “I 
understand how to pity you for this little misunderstand- 
ing.” 

“ Ah, mon Dicu /”’ said Rosalie in a low voice. Im- 
mediately there was a hail-storm of astonishing promises, 
the commander’s cross for the first of next January, the 
first vacant place in the superior council, the — the — 
The gentleman tried to protest for form’s sake ; but Numa 
said, — 

“Be quiet! be quiet! It is an act of justice. Men 
like you are too rare.” 

Carried away by benevolence, and stammering with 
affectionate impulses, if Béchut had not gone the minister 
would positively have offered his portfolio to him. At 
the door he reminded him again : — 

“T count on you Sunday, my dear master. I am to 
begin a series of small concerts among friends, you know. 
Very select.” 

And returning to Rosalie, he said, “ Well, what do you 
say about it? I hope that I have yielded nothing to him.” 

It was so droll that she received him with a great burst 
of laughter. When he knew the reason, and all the new 
promises that he had just made, he seemed frightened. 

“Well, they will be pleased with you all the same,” she 
said, and left him, giving him the smile of former days ; 


116 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


quite light-hearted at her good action, and perhaps also 
happy at feeling something stir in her heart that she had 
long thought dead. 

“Angel, go,”’ said Roumestan, who looked at her as she 
left the room with a tender light in his eyes; and, when 
Méjean returned to notify him regarding the council, he 
said, — 

“Understand, my friend, when one has the happiness 
to possess such a wife, marriage is a paradise on earth. 
Make haste and marry.” 

Méjean shook his head without answering. 

“What! is not your suit prospering?” 

“T fear not. Mme. Roumestan promised me to ques- 
tion her sister ; and as she no longer talks to me about 
any thing” — 

“To you wish me to undertake it? I am on wonder- 
fully good terms with my little sister-in-law. I wager that 
I shall accomplish it.” 

There remained a little vervain in the teapot; and, 
while pouring out a fresh cup, Roumestan lavished praises 
on his chief of the cabinet. He had lost nothing of his 
grandeur. Méjean was still his excellent and best friend, 
and between Méjean and Rosalie he felt himself stronger 
and more himself. 

“ Ah, my dear fellow! that woman! that woman! If 
you knew how kind and forgiving she has been! When 
I think that I might have” — To withhold the confi- 
dence that came to his lips with a deep sigh really cost 
him great effort. ‘If I did not love her I should be very 
guilty.” 

Baron de Lappara just then entered very quickly, mys- 
teriously announcing, “ Mlle. Bachellery is here.” 

Immediately Numa’s face colored deeply, and a bright 


RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 117 


gleam in his eyes dried the dewy light that rose in 
them. 

“Where is she? At your house?” 

“ Monseigneur Lipmann is already there,” said Lap- 
para, ridiculing the idea of a possible encounter. “I 
have taken her down-stairs to the grand salon. ‘The 
rehearsal is over.” 

“ Well, I will go down.” 

“Do not forget the council,” Méjean tried to say. 
But Roumestan, without listening, sprang down the small, 
break-neck staircase that led to the minister’s private 
apartments on the reception-room floor. 

Since the history of Mme. d’ Esparbés was made 
known, he had always avoided binding Zazsons, those of 
the heart or vanity, that might have destroyed his house- 
hold forever. He was certainly not a model husband ; 
but the contract, riddled with holes, still held. Rosalie, 
although warned once, was too straightforward and too 
honest for jealous watchfulness, and, though always anx- 
ious, never had proofs. At this hour, even, if he could 
have suspected the place that this new caprice was to 
hold in his life, he would have hastened to ascend the 
stairway more quickly than he descended it; but our 
destiny always delights in deceiving us by approaching 
us in a mantle and mask, and in increasing by mystery 
the charm of first interviews. How could Numa mis- 
trust this little girl, whom from his carriage, several days 
before, he had seen crossing the court of the hotel, tak- 
ing little leaps over the wet places, with her skirt gathered 
up in one hand, and holding high her umbrella in the 
other in a truly Parisian street style? Large eyebrows 
curved down over an arched nose, a fair head of hair 
fastened in the back in the American style, which the 


118 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


dampness curled at the end, a full leg delicately poised 
on high heels, were all that he noticed ; and in the even- 
ing he asked Lappara without attaching more importance 
to it: — 

“Shall we wager that the little creature I met this 
morning in the court-yard was coming to your house?” 

“Yes, sir: she was coming to my house, but to see 
you,” and he gave the name of the little Bachellery. 

“What! the débutante at the Bouffes? What is her 
age? Why, she is a child!” 

The papers said a great deal that winter about this 
Alice Bachellery, whom the caprice of a fashionable maés- 
ro sought out in a small provincial theatre, and whom all 
Paris wished to hear sing the song “ Petit Mitron,” whose 
refrain she gave with irresistible vulgar playfulness : — 


“Chaud! Chaud! Les p’tits pains d’gruau!” 


She was one of those a@vas that the boulevard makes 
use of by the half-dozen every season, and might be 
compared to a bit of glory in paper filled with gas and 
advertising, like the small pink balloons that last for a day 
in the sunlight and dust of public gardens. Could any 
one imagine that she came to ask of the minister the 
favor of figuring on the programme of the first concert? 
Little Bachellery in the Public Instruction! It was such 
an amusing and wild idea, that Numa wished to hear her 
ask it herself; and in a ministerial letter which had a 
favorable tone gave her to understand that he would 
receive her the next day. The next day Mlle. Bachel- 
lery did not come. 

‘‘She must have changed her mind,” said Lappara. 
“She is such a child.” 

The minister was piqued, spoke no more of her for 
two days, and on the third sent for her. 





RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 119 


She was now waiting in the red-and-gold salon des 
Jétes, which was so imposing with its lofty windows on a 
level with the bare garden. It contained Gobelin hang- © 
ings, and a marble statue of the great Moliére in a sitting 
posture and dreaming in the background. A Pleyel and 
a few desks for rehearsals filled hardly a corner of the 
vast hall, whose chilling resemblance to a deserted 
museum would have impressed any other than the little 
Bachellery ; but she was such a child! Tempted by the 
broad, shining waxed floor, she amused herself, wrapped - 
up in her furs, with her arms in her very small muff, and 
her nose held up in the air from under her cap, by slid- 
ing from one end to the other like a coryphée, dancing 
the “ballet on ice ” in “ The Prophet.” 

Roumestan surprised her in this exercise. 

“Ah! MW. le ministre!” she exclaimed, abashed, out 
of breath, and with trembling lashes. He had entered 
with head erect, and a grave step, to remove whatever 
there might be out of place in the interview, and to 
give a lesson to this errand-girl who made Excellencies 
pose. But he was immediately disarmed. How could 
it be otherwise? She explained her little business so 
well, and the ambitious desire that had come to her all 
at once to take part in this concert which was so much 
talked about, and which was an opportunity for her to 
make herself heard elsewhere than in the wearisome 
opera and comic performances. When she thought it all 
over, she had stage-fright. 

“ Oh, yes, a real stage-fright ! wasn’t it, mamma?” 

Roumestan then noticed a stout lady in a velvet man- 
tle, and hat with feathers, who walked forward from the 
end of the sa/on, and bowed three times. Mme. Bachel- 
lery the mother, an ancient Dugazon of ca/‘s-concerts, 


120 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


with a Bordelais accent, and the small nose of her daugh- 
ter swallowed up in a broad oyster-woman’s face, was 
one of those dreadful mammas who show themselves 
at the side of their daughters like a prophecy of the 
future decay of beauty. But Numa was not in the 
mood for philosophic study, captivated by the youthful, 
careless grace of her lovely person, and the theatre-slang 
that accompanied her ingenuous laugh, —a laugh of 
sixteen years, so the ladies said. 

“Sixteen! Why, at what age, then, did she enter the 
theatre?” 

“She was born there, JZ. Ze ministre. Her father, who 
has now retired, was a director of the Folies-Bordelaises.” 

“What! a child of the profession?” said Alice fret- 
fully, showing thirty-two sparkling teeth in a straight, 
close line, as if on parade. 

“ Alice, you forget yourself before his Excellency.” 

“Do not reprove her. She is a child.” 

He made her sit near him on the lounge, with a kindly, 
almost paternal gesture, and complimented her on her 
ambition, and taste for high art, and her desire to escape 
the easy and disastrous success of the opera, only it 
required much work and close study. 

“Oh! as for that,” said the little girl, waving her roll 
of music, “ two hours every day with Vauters.” 

“Vauters. Perfect! Excellent method;” and he 
opened the roll like a connoisseur. 

“ And what are we singing? Ah! the waltz of Mireille. 
The song of Magali! Why, it is my native air.” 

Then keeping time with his head, and partly closing 
his eyes, he began to whistle : — 

“OQ Magali, ma bien aimée, 


Fuyons tous deux sous la rameée, 
Au fond du bois silencieux.” 


RENEWAL OF YOUTH. I2I 


She continued, — 


“La nuit sur nous étend ses voiles, 
Et tes beaux yeux” — 


And Roumestan at the top of his voice concluded, — 
“ Vont faire palir les étoiles.” 


She interrupted him quickly : — 

“Wait a moment! Mamma will play the accompani- 
ment.” 

And pushing the desks aside, and opening the piano, 
she placed her mother before it by force. Ah! a little 
determined person! The minister hesitated a second, 
with his finger on the page of the duet. What if some 
one should hear them! Bah! for three days they had 
been rehearsing every day in the grand sa/on. And they 
began. 

Both standing and looking over the same page of 
music followed the accompaniment of Mme. Bachellery, 
who played from memory. Their two foreheads were 
close together, and almost touched, and their breath 
mingled with the modulated caresses of the rhythm ; and 
Numa, becoming impassioned, sang with expression, and 
held out his arms, when he came to the high notes, in 
order to bring them out better. For some years since 
the assumption of his grand political +é/e, he had talked 
more than he practised scales, and his voice was as 
trusty and heavy as his person; but he still took great 
pleasure in singing, especially with this child. 

For example, he had completely forgotten the Bishop 
of Tulle, and the Superior Council, who were wasting 
their time sitting around the large green table. Once or 
twice the clicking of a silver chain announced the ap- 
pearance of the wan face of the usher, who immediately 

9 


122 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


drew back frightened at having seen the Minister of the 
Public Instruction and Culture singing a duet with an 
actress of a small theatre. Numa was a minister no 
longer: he was Vincent the basket-maker, pursuing the 
impregnable Magali in her coquettish transformations. 

How charming she was as she fled, and concealed 
herself with her childlike cunning, her brilliant laugh 
ringing out between her pearly teeth! and how charming 
when, conquered, she gave herself up, and leaned her 
foolish little head, dizzy with running, on her friend’s 
shoulder ! 

Mamma Bachellery broke the charm by turning around 
as soon as the piece was finished, exclaiming, — 

“What a voice, AV. le ministre / what a voice!” 

“Yes, I sang in my youth,” he answered foolishly, 

“But you still sing magnificenty. Hein, Baby, how 
different from M. de Lappara !” 

Baby rolled round her music, and lightly raised her 
shoulders, as if so indisputable a truth needed no other 
answer. Roumestan asked rather anxiously, — 

“But M. de Lappara?”’ 

“Ves, he sometimes comes to partake of Jdowz//a- 
baisse with us; then after dinner Baby and he sing their 
aunet.) 

At this moment the usher, no longer hearing music, 
decided to return with the precaution of a tamer of wild 
beasts in their cage. 

“Tam coming, I am coming,” said Roumestan; and 
addressing the little girl with his most ministerial air, to 
make her feel the hierarchical distance that separated her 
from his at/aché, he said, — 

“JT present you my compliments, mademoiselle: you 
have a great deal of talent; and, if it pleases you to sing 
here Sunday, I willingly grant you the favor.” 


ae ee 


RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 123 


She gave a childish cry. “Really? Oh, how lovely!” 
and with one leap sprang on his neck. 

“ Alice, Alice! What are you doing?” said the mother. 
But she was already far away, running through the sa/ons, 
where she seemed very small in the high suite of rooms 
—a child, quite a child. 

Numa was stirred by this caress, and waited a moment 
before ascending. Before him in the rusty garden a pale 
sunbeam fell on the lawn, warming and giving life to win- 
ter; and he felt penetrated to the heart with similar 
warmth, as if this lively supple form, in brushing past, 
had communicated to him a little of her springtime 
warmth. “Ah! beautiful is youth.’’ Mechanically he 
looked at himself in a mirror, and was more thoughtful 
than he had been for years. What changes, doun Diou / 
He had grown very stout on account of a sedentary pro- 
fession, and the carriages that he abused. His complex- 
ion was dulled by late hours, and his hair was already 
thin and gray about the temples: he was still more 
frightened at the width of his cheeks, and a broad space 
between his nose and ear. 

“What if I should let my beard grow to conceal it?” 
Yes; but it would come out white, and he was not forty- 
five. Ah! politics makes one grow old. 

For a moment he experienced the frightful sadness of 
a woman who sees that all her charms have gone, and 
that she is unable to inspire love, though she can still feel 
it. His reddened eyelids were swollen ; and, in this pal- 
ace of power, this bitterness that was profoundly human, 
and in which ambition counted as nought, had something 
even more cutting ; but on account of his quickly chan- 
ging impressions he immediately consoled himself, think- 
ing of his glory, his talent, and lofty situation. Were not 


124 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


these equal to beauty and youth for making one’s self 
beloved? 

He found himself growing very stupid, drove away his 
chagrin with a shrug of his shoulder, and went up to dis- 
miss the council, for there was no longer time to preside 
over it. 

“What is the matter with you to-day, my dear minis- 
ter? You appear quite rejuvenated.” 

More than a dozen times in the course of the day they 
paid him this compliment on account of his good-humor 
and his animation, that was particularly noticed in the 
lobbies of the Chamber, where he caught himself whis- 
tling, “O Magali, my well-beloved /”” Seated on the minis- 
ter’s bench, he listened with a very flattering attention to 
an interminable discourse of the orator on the tariff, and 
smiled beatifically with eyelids cast'down. And the Left, 
whom his reputation for astuteness frightened, said to 
themselves with a shudder, “ Let us be watchful. Rou- 
mestan is preparing something.” It was simply on 
account of the figure of the little Bachellery, whom his 
imagination took pleasure in calling before him in the 
dulness of the buzzing discourse, and promenading be- 
fore the ministerial bench, in all her attractions, — her 
hair covering her forehead with a line of light blonde 
frizz, her complexion like pink hawthom, giving her the 
appearance of a dashing girl, with the maturity of a 
woman. 

However, towards evening he had another sad mood 
when returning from Versailles with some of his col- 
leagues in the cabinet. In the stifling air of a car full 
of smokers, they talked, in the tone of familiar gayety 
which Roumestan carried with him everywhere, of a 
certain orange-colored velvet hat framing a pale creole 


. ‘. " 4 
a 


RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 125 


face at the diplomatic tribune, where it made a happy 
diversion from the custom-house tariffs, and made all the 
honorables hold their noses up in the air, like a class of 
school-boys when a stray butterfly fluttering by interrupts 
a lesson in Greek. No one knew who she was. 

“You must inquire of the general,” said Numa, gayly 
turning to the Marquis d’Espaillion d’Aubord, a minister 
of war, and an old love-sick graybeard. 

“Good! Do not defend yourself, she has looked at 
no one but you.” 

The general made a grimace which drew up to his 
nose, as if by a spring, his thin yellow goat’s beard. 

“Tt’s many a day since women have looked at me. 
They have eyes only for those é there.” 

He whom he designated in this rakish language pecu- 
liarly dear to all gentlemen-soldiers, was the young de 
Lappara, who was seated in a corner of the car, with 
the ministerial portfolio on his knees, and preserved a 
respectful silence in the company of big caps. Roumes- 
tan felt hit, without precisely knowing where, and replied 
with vivacity. According to him, there were many other 
attractions than youth in a man that women preferred. 

“They tell you so.” 

“TJ leave it to these gentlemen.” 

These gentlemen, ministers and sub-secretaries of 
state, — either corpulent, with coats that bound them 
tightly across the stomach, or withered and slender, bald 
or white-haired, and toothless, with ill-kept mouths, and 
afflicted with some ailment, — were each and all of Rou- 
mestan’s opinion. The discussion became animated in 
the noise of the wheels, and the loud conversation of the 
parliamentary train. 

“Our ministers are quarrelling, 

9 





” 


said people in the 


E26 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


neighboring compartments ; and the journalists tried to 
catch a few words through the partitions. 

“"Vhe popular man, the man in power,” thundered 
Numa, “is the one they like. To be able to say that 
the man who is there before them, at their knees, is an 
illustrious and powerful man, one of the levers of the 
world, is what delights them.” 

pide, exactly (7? 

“Very true, very true.” 

“T think as you do, my dear colleague.” 

“Well, I tell you that when I was a staff-officer, a 
simple lieutenant, and on my Sundays off started out in 
grand style, in accordance with my twenty-five years and 
with new shoulder-knots, I received as I passed along 
those looks from women which envelop one like the lash 
of a whip from neck to heels, — looks that no one gives to 
a big-epauletted fellow of my age. So now, when I wish 
to feel the warmth and sincerity of one of those glances, 
a silent declaration in the open street, do you know what 
I do? I take one of my azdes-de-camp who is young, 
by the tooth and shirt-front, and I pay him for walking 
with him arm-in-arm, s n @. D. he 

Roumestan remained silent until he reached Paris, his 
melancholy of the morning returning, with the addition 
of anger and indignation against the blind folly of women 
who can go crazy over fools and would-be beaux. Let 
us see what there is rare about this Lappara. Without 
mingling in the debate, he caressed his blonde beard with 
a foppish manner, which was increased by his precise 
dress and low-cut collar. Had he been at the theatre, he 
would have been applauded by the c/ague. Such an air 
he would assume, were he to sing the duet of “ Mireille ”’ 
with the little Bachellery, — his mistress, of course. The 














RENEWAL OF YOUTH. 127 


idea shocked Numa ; but, at the same time, he would like 
to ascertain this, that he might convince himself. 

Hardly were they alone, while his cougé was rolling 
towards the ministry, than he rudely asked without look- 
ing at Lappara, — 

“Have you known these women long?” 

“What women, monsieur?”’ 

“Why, the Bachellery ladies, to be sure.” 

His head was full of them. He thought that all, like 
himself, were thinking of them. Lappara began to laugh. 

Oh, yes! for a long while: they were countrywomen 
of his. The Bachellery family! the Folies-Bordelaise t 
all the pleasant memories of his eighteen years were 
recalled. His schoolboy heart had beaten for the mam- 
ma in a manner to have sent flying all the buttons on his 
jacket. 

“And to-day it beats for the daughter?” asked Rou- 
mestan in a light tone, wiping the glass pane with his 
glove, in order to look out into the dark, wet street. 

“Oh! the daughter is another person, notwithstanding 
she is a very reserved and serious young lady. I do not 
know what she is aiming at, but it is something that I am 
not in a position to give her.” 

Numa felt relieved. 

“Ah, indeed ! and yet you are going back there.” 

“Why, yes: the home of the Bachellerys is so enter- 
taining. The father, the ancient director, writes comic 
couplets for cafés-concerts. The mamma sings and acts 
them, while frying céfes in oil; and the douiVabaisse is 
such as Roubion himself does not have. There is shout- 
ing, confusion, music, and feasting, with the Folies-Bor- 
delaises at home. ‘The little Bachellery leads the rollick- 
ing, twirling round, supping and trilling, but does not 
lose her head an instant.” 


128 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Eh! my fine fellow, you expect that she will lose it 
some day or another, and to your profit too.” Having 
suddenly become very grave, the minister added, “It is 
bad society for you, young man. You must be more 
sedate than that, devil take it! The Bordelaise folly 
cannot last all your life.” 

And, taking his hand, he continued, “ Aren’t you 
thinking of marriage, pray?” 

“No, indeed, monsieur. I am very well off as I am: 
that is, unless I have an astonishing windfall.” 

“With your name, your relations, the windfall will 
come ;” and, suddenly stepping into his carriage, he 
added, — 

“What would you say to Mlle. Le Quesnoy ?”’ 

The Bordelais, in spite of his audacity, paled with joy 
and astonishment. 

“Oh! sir, I never should have dared.” 

“Why not? why, yes, yes. You know how I love you, 
my dear boy. I should be happy to see you in my 
family. I should feel more complete, more” — 

He stopped short in the middle of his sentence, being 
reminded that he had already said it to Méjean in the 
morning. 

“Ah! bad luck. It is done.” He shrugged his 
shoulders, and shrank back in the carriage. After all, 
Hortense is free, and will make her own choice. I shall 
still have taken this youth from bad society.” On his 
conscience, Roumestan was sure that this sentiment alone 
had influenced him. 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 129 


CHAPTER IX. 
AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 


THE Faubourg St. Germain appeared different this even- 
ing. The dwellers in narrow and usually quiet streets, who 
retired early, were awakened by the jolting of omnibuses 
off of thei youte; there were others, on the contrary, — 
where peopre were accustomed to the sound of the steady 
stream of travel and to the incessant rumble of the great 
Parisian arteries, which now opened before one like the 
empty bed of a river, and appeared wider because silent 
and deserted. At their entrance they were guarded by a 
tall mounted policeman, or by a line of officers who cast 
gloomy shadows across the asphaltum, and who, with their 
hoods drawn down and their hands in their muffs, motioned 
to carriages, — 

“No passing here.” 

“Ts there a fire?”’ some one asked, putting a scared 
face out of a coach-door. 

“No, sir: there is a sozvée at the Public Instruction.” 

The man addressed returned to his post; while the 
coachman drove away, swearing at being obliged to make 
a long circuit on the left bank, where the streets, cut 
through irregularly, have still somewhat of the crookedness 
of old Paris. It was true that at a distance the brilliant 
lights on both sides of the minister’s house, the fires 
burning in the middle of the street to drive away the cold, 
and the long line of light of the carriages winding slowly 


130 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


around to the same point, cast over the neighborhood 
the brilliant light of a conflagration, made brighter by the 
limpid blue of the heavens and the clear, frosty air. 

But on approaching the house one became quickly 
re-assured by the orderly manner in which the /é¢e was 
conducted. ‘The broad, even sheet of light reached the 
roofs of the adjacent houses, which bore the inscriptions, 
in gold letters, of “‘ Mayoralty of the VII. District. Postal 
and Telegraph Department,” which could be read as 
plainly as by daylight ; then softly faded into Bengal lights, 
which cast a fairy-like radiance on a number of tall, bare, 
motionless trees. 

Among the passers-by who tarried in spite of the cold, 
and out of curiosity formed a line at the hotel-door, there 
moved about a small, comical shadow, with the walk of 
a duck, and wrapped from head to foot in along peasant’s 
cloak, which concealed all her person excepting two sharp 
eyes. She came and went, bent almost double, her teeth 
chattering ; though, being carried away by feverish excite- 
ment, she did not notice the frosty air. Sometimes she 
hastened towards the carriages stationed along the Rue 
de Grenelle, that were advancing almost imperceptibly, 
with a luxurious sound of curb-chains and of impatient 
steeds, and disclosing to view behind the misty window 
shadowy white figures. Now and then she returned to 
the entrance, where the carriage of some high dignitary, 
having been allowed to break the line, freely entered. 
She pushed aside the people with a “Pardon! Let me 
have a look.” When the carriage-steps were noisily let 
down, and the glare from the lamps beneath the awnings 
disclosed streams of rustling satin and airy clouds of tulle 
and flowers gliding over the carpeting, the little shadow, 
eagerly leaning over, drew back just quick enough to 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. hewn 


prevent being crushed by other carriages that were en- 
tering. 

Audiberte wished to see with her own eyes how every 
thing went off. With what pride she looked at the crowd 
and lights, at the soldiers on foot and horseback, and at 
this quarter of Paris turned topsy-turvy on account of 
Valmajour’s tambourine ! for it was in his honor that this 
jéte was given, and she was convinced that these fine 
gentlemen and beautiful ladies had no other name than 
that of Valmajour on their lips. From the door on the 
Rue de Grenelle she ran to the Rue Bellechasse, through 
which the carriages drove away. Approaching a group 
of guards and coachmen in large overcoats standing around 
a brasero blazing in the middle of the street, she was 
astonished to hear them talk of the cold which was very 
keen that winter, of potatoes freezing in the cellars, and 
matters wholly irrelevant to the /é¢e and her brother. She 
felt irritated more than all at the endless, unwinding line, 
and would have liked to see the last carriage enter, to be 
able to say to herself, “ He is there: it has begun. This 
time it is sure.” But the night was advancing, and the 
cold became more penetrating. Her feet were freezing, 
which made her weep, which it is difficult to do when the 
heart is glad. Finally she decided to return home, and 
gave a last look at the splendors which she carried away 
with her, through the deserted streets and icy night, in 
her poor wild head, which was feverish with dreams and 
hopes ; while her temples throbbed with burning ambi- 
tion, and her eyes were forever dazzled and blinded by 
the illumination to the glory of Valmajour. 

What would she have said if she had entered, and seen 
all the white-and-gold sa/ons which opened into each 
other by arched doors, and were made to appear larger 


132 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


by mirrors in which were reflected the light from the 
chandeliers and candelabra; if she had seen the glitter 
of diamonds, epaulettes, and orders of every kind, em- 
broidered in palm-leaves, aigrettes, and brochettes, and 
as large as pyrotechnic suns, or as small as charms, and 
fastened around the neck by broad red ribbons that made 
one think of the bleeding circle on necks beheaded ? 

Mixed up with the great names of the Faubourg were 
those of ministers, generals, ambassadors, and members 
of the Institute and Superior Council of the University. 
Never in the amphitheatre at Aps, or even in the grand 
meeting of tambourine-players at Marseilles, had Valma- 
jour had such an audience. His name, to tell the truth, 
did not occupy a very prominent place in this /é¢e which 
was given in his honor. The programme, embellished 
with a wonderful border from the pen of Dalys, to be sure, 
announced “ airs with variations on the tambourine,” with 
the name of Valmajour among that of several illustrious 
lyric artists ; but no one looked at the programme. 

Only intimate friends, who always know one’s affairs, 
said to the minister, who stood at the entrance of the 
first salon, — 

“You have a tambourine-player?” 

“Ves, it is a fancy of the ladies,” he answered absently. 

Poor Valmajour received but little of his attention. 
There was another début that evening, of more conse- 
quence to him. What would they say of it? Would she 
be successful? Had not his interest in the child de- 
ceived him as to her talent as a singer? And feeling 
very much in love, although he did not wish as yet to 
confess it, consumed to his very marrow by the passion 
of a man of forty, he felt the anxiety of the father, the 
husband, the lover, and the costumer of the dduzantée, 





AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 133 


that mournful anxiety which troubles hearts behind the 
curtain on the night of a first performance. It did not 
prevent him from being amiable, and from receiving his 
company with both hands extended. What a company 
it was, — doun Diou /—with its affectation and smiles, 
its neighing and stamping, and postures of the body 
forward and backward! demonstrations which, though 
monotonous, varied in degree. The minister, suddenly 
leaving and almost repulsing the dear guest to whom he 
was about to yield his.heart, and to promise in a low 
voice a multitude of invaluable favors, sprang forward to 
meet a stout lady with a high color and commanding 
gait; and, with an “ Ah, marchioness!” took within his 
own a large red arm, squeezed into a glove with twenty 
buttons, and escorted the noble guest between a double 
row of black-coated men, who bowed respectfully from 
salon to salon, as far as the concert-hall, where the 
honors were done by Mme. Roumestan and her sister. 
Returning, he shook hands right and left, with the cor- 
dial words, “Count upon it. It is done,” or hurried out 
a “ Good-day, friend,” and to give more warmth to the 
reception, and to put a current of sympathy between the 
solemn guests, presented people to each other, and, with- 
out warning, threw them into each other’s arms, saying, 
“What! you do not know each other? Prince d’Anhalt, 
M. Bos, the senator.” He did not notice that hardly 
were their names spoken, when the two men, after a 
brusque and profound bow, with a “ Monsieur, mon- 
sieur,” awaited only his departure to ferociously turn 
their backs upon each other. 

Like the majority of political combatants, the good 
Numa, when once a conqueror, and in power, had grown 
tame. Without ceasing to belong to the moral order, the 


134 NUMA ROOMESTAN. 


Vendean of the South had lost his fine ardor for the 
cause, left great hopes to slumber, and began to think 
that affairs were getting along. Why need there be say- 
age hatred between honest men? He wished pacifica- 
tion and mutual forbearance, and counted on music to 
bring about a reconciliation between the parties. His 
“small concerts” of about fifteen became a neutral 
ground of artistic enjoyment and courtesy, where the 
most bitter opponents could meet, aside from political 
torments and passions, and learn to appreciate each 
other. On account of this there was a singular mixture 
in the invitations, and the guests were embarrassed and 
ill at ease. There was quickly-checked whispering, a 
noiseless moving to and fro of black coats, a lack of in- 
terest, and a raising of the eyes to the ceiling to study 
the gilded flutings of the panels, the ornamentation of 
the Directory, half in the style of Louis XVI., and half 
Empire, which displays copper heads inlaid in straight 
lines on the marble mantle-pieces. People were cold and 
warm at the same time, as if the bitter frost outside, 
though barred by thick walls and wadded curtains, had 
chilled the spirit. At times the hasty flitting of Roche- 
maure and Lappara, acting as deputies to seat the ladies, 
broke the monotonous promenade of those who were 
wearied with standing; and the appearance of beautiful 
Mme. Hubler caused a sensation as she passed, with 
plumes in her hair, and with the thin profile of a wax 
doll, with a smile reaching from the corner of her lips to 
her eyebrows, like a figure in a hair-dresser’s window. 
But it very quickly became cold again. 

“These sa/ons are the devil and all to warm. The 
shade of Frayssinous must certainly return at night.” 

This remark, uttered in a loud voice, came from a 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 135 


group of young musicians, who were crowding around 
Cardaillac, the director of the Opéra, who was _philo- 
sophically sitting on a velvet bench, with his back to a 
bust of Moliére. As he was now very stout and rather 
deaf, with a bristling moustache, perfectly white, and with 
a bloated and impenetrable mask, one hardly recognized 
the supple, dashing zmfressario of the fézes of the nabob 
in the majestic idol whose eye alone told of the mocking 
Parisian, of his wide knowledge of life, and of his mind, 
which was like an iron-pointed 4é/on, hardened in the 
glare of the footlights. Satisfied and satiated, and fear- 
ing, above every thing, to be removed from his situation 
at the end of his term, he drew in his claws, and spoke 
little, especially here, where he was satisfied to empha- 
size his remarks on the official and society comedy with 
the silent laugh of Leatherstocking. 

“ Boissaric, my child,” he said, in a low tone, to a 
young and crafty fellow from Toulouse, who had just 
succeeded in having a ballet performed at the Opéra, 
after waiting only ten years for a chance, which no one 
believed he had, —“ Boissaric, since you know every 
thing, tell me the name of this solemn personage with 
moustaches, who talks familiarly with every one, and 
walks behind his nose meditatively, as if he were going 
to its burial. He must belong to the profession, for he 
has talked theatre to me with a certain degree of experi- 
enice.”’ 

“T think not, patron. He is more likely a diplomat. 
I heard him say just now to the Minister of Belgium that 
they had been colleagues for a long time.” 

“You are mistaken, Boissaric: he must be a foreign 
general. He was speechifying a moment ago to a group 
of fellows with big epaulets, and said, in a very loud 
voice, — 


136 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“¢There never should have been a large military com- 
mand.’”’ 

“Strange !” 

Lappara, who was consulted as he passed by, began to 
laugh. 

““Why, it is Bompard.” 

** Qués aco Bompard ?”’ 

“The minister’s friend. Don’t you know him?” 

“From the South?” 

“ Te, parbleu.” 

It was indeed Bompard, who, in a new, superb, tight- 
fitting coat with velvet trimmings, and with his gloves 
tucked in his waistcoat, was trying to enliven his friend’s 
soirée by avaried and sustained conversation. Unknown 
in official society, where he presented himself for the 
first time, he seemed to create a sensation, displaying 
from one group to the other his inventive faculties, bril- 
liant visions, stories of royal loves, adventures, and com- 
bats, and triumphs in federal shooting, which brought to 
all the faces around him the same expression of astonish- 
ment, embarrassment, and doubt. ‘There was, to be sure, 
an element of gayety ; but it was understood by a few inti- 
mate friends only, and was powerless to divert the ennui 
which now reached even the concert-hall, a large and 
very picturesque room with two stories of galleries, and 
a glass ceiling which seemed to be open to the sky. 
Long-leaved banana and palm trees, motionless under 
the chandeliers, made a background of fresh greenery to 
the toilets of ladies sitting in a close line in countless 
rows of chairs. There was a sea of bowing and swaying 
necks, shoulders, and arms protruding from corsages 
like parts of a half-opened flower ; there were head-dresses 
dotted with stars, diamonds mingling with the bluish 


oo 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. £29, 


light of black hair and the spun gold of fair hair; and 
indistinct profiles, in full health, with curving lines from 
the chignon to the waist, or slender and delicate ones 
from the long neck fastened with a knot of velvet to the 
belt which was clasped by a small buckle of brilliants. 
Open fans, shaded and spangled, waved and fluttered 
over all, and mingled the perfume of white roses or 
opoponax with the faint exhalation of white lilacs and 
natural violets. 

The weary expression of their faces increased at the 
prospect of keeping still two hours before the platform 
where the chorus, in black coats and in white muslin, 
passive as before a photographic apparatus, were ex- 
tended in a half-circle, and where the orchestra, like 
instruments of torture, were concealed by foliage and 
roses, above which protruded the necks of bass-viols. 
All knew the tortures of the musical cangue,' which were 
reckoned among the fatigues and cruel society burdens 
of a winter season. That is why one in searching in 
the large hall found that the only satisfied, smiling face 
was that of Mme. Roumestan, which did not wear that 
professional smile of the hostess, which so easily changes 
to an expression of fatigue and hatred when no longer 
observed, but that of a happy woman beloved, and about 
to begin life anew. Oh, inexhaustible tenderness of an 
honest heart that has beaten for love only once! Here 
she was beginning to believe again in her Numa, who 
had been so good and tender for some time. It was 
like a re-union, and the embrace of two hearts re-united 
after a long absence. Without questioning from what 
cause arose this renewed tenderness, she saw him again 
young and loving as one evening before the hunting 


? An instrument of torture used in Asia. — TRANS. 


10 


138 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


panel ; and she was ‘still the charming Diana with a sup- 
ple, delicate figure, in a white brocade dress, with her 
chestnut hair in bands above her pure forehead, where 
dwelt no evil-thought, and which seemed to be that of a 
woman of twenty-five rather than thirty. 

Hortense also looked very pretty, in a blue tulle dress 
which like a cloud enveloped her tall, rather stooping 
figure, and lent a soft brown shade to her face. But she 
was absorbed in the déu¢ of her musician. She won- 
dered how this refined public would enjoy this local 
music, and if the tambourine, as Rosalie said, ought not 
to have been surrounded with a gray horizon of olive- 
trees, and hills like lace-work ; and in silence, and full of 
emotion, amid the murmur of conversation, and the rus- 
tling of fans, in which mingled the successive chords from 
the instruments, she looked over the programme, and 
counted the pieces before Valmajour’s turn. 

After a tapping of the bow on the desks, and a rus- 
tling of paper on the platform where the chorus have 
risen with their parts in their hands, and a steady look 
of the victims toward the hall-door, which is obstructed 
by black coats, as if they longed to fly, the first notes of 
Gliick’s chorus rise to the glass roof above, on which 
rests the blue expanse of the winter night, — 


“ Ah! dans ce bois funeste et sombre.” 


It has begun. 

A taste for music has greatly increased in France m 
the last few years. At Paris especially, the Sunday con- 
certs, and those of the Holy Week, and of a large number 
of private societies, have aroused public thought, made 
classical works generally known, and brought musical 
knowledge into fashion. But at heart Paris is too full of 


a ee 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 139 


life and excitement to be very fond of music, which is 
an overwhelming power, that holds one motionless and 
voiceless even, seizing thought as in a net of floating har- 
mony, and, like the sea, lulls one to sleep. The Parisian 
passion for it is like that of a swell for a fashionable girl, 
for the sake of being cAzc. It is that of the gallery, and 
is commonplace and worthless, even to exnuz. 

Ennui/ that was indeed the dominant note in this 
concert of the Public Instruction. Upon receiving the 
signalled applause and the ecstatic looks which are part 
of the worldly assumption of the most sincere women, it 
gradually became stirring, and brought a fixed smile and 
light to their eyes, and roused them from their pretty lan- 
guishing poses as if they were birds on a branch, drink- 
ing it in drop by drop. Chained to the long rows of 
chairs, they one after the other discussed the music, 
shouting, “ Bravo!” “ Divine!” “ Delicious!” to revive 
themselves as they were succumbing to a torpor which 
like a mist seemed to come from that sea of sound, and 
to render them indifferent to the artists. 

The most famous and illustrious of Paris were there, 
however, and interpreted the classical music with all the 
scientific knowledge it required, and which, alas ! can be 
acquired only at the cost of years. Here is Vauters, who 
has sung a beautiful romance of Beethoven, “Calm,” and 
with more passion than ever this evening, but there are 
harsh notes in the instrument, sounding like the grating 
of a bow on the wood of a violin ; and of the great singer 
of former days, the celebrated beauty, there remain only 
fine attitudes, an irreproachable method, and that long 
white hand which at the last bar brushes away the tear in 
the corner of her eye, enlarged by kohl, —a tear y lich 
tells of a sob that the voice can no longer express. 


140 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Who like the handsome Mayol has ever sighed the 
serenade of “ Don Juan” with such light delicacy, whose 
passion seems like that of a dragon-fly in love? Unfortu- 
nately one hears it no longer. In vain he stands on tip- 
toe, and stretches his throat, and spins out the note, 
accompanying it with the easy gesture of the spinner 
pinching her wool between two fingers: not a sound is 
heard. 

Paris, grateful for past enjoyment, applauds all the 
same; but these worn-out voices, and faded and too- 
familiar faces, like medals with the bas-reliefs worn off by 
constant circulation, cannot dissipate the heavy atmos- 
phere at the minister’s /é/e, notwithstanding the efforts of 
Roumestan to enliven it, and the bravos of enthusiasm 
which he utters loudly among the black coats ; notwith- 
standing the “ Hush!” with which he terrifies, at the dis- 
tance of two salons, people who try to talk, and move 
about silent as spectres in the brilliant light, cautiously 
changing their places to divert themselves. Stooping, 
with their arms hanging listlessly, and with vacant and 
stupefied faces, they fall exhausted on low seats, and twirl 
their opera-hats between their legs. 

The entrance of Alice Bachellery on the stage arouses 
every one. At both doors of the hall the people are 
pressing forward, curious to see the little @va in a short 
skirt standing on the platform, with her lips parted and 
long eyelashes quivering, as if with surprise at seeing so 
many present. “Chaud! chaud! les p’tis pains de gru- 
au!” hummed the young men of the clubs, with the 
vulgar gesture given at the end of the couplet. Old gen- 
tlemen from the University approach friskily, leaning their 
hea. forward on the side of their good ear, that they 
may not lose the full meaning of the coarse jest then in 





AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 141 


fashion. It was a disappointment when the little baker’s 
boy sang in her sharp voice a grand air from “ Alceste,”’ 
rehearsed with La Vauters, who encouraged her from the 
wings. Faces grow long, and the black coats desert the 
place, and begin to wander around, the more freely be- 
cause the minister, who went to the end of the last salon 
on the arm of M. de Boé, —who was quite overcome by 
such an honor, —is not watching them. Eternal child- 
ishness of love! Though you are twenty years in a pal- 
ace, fifteen years in the tribune, and sufficient master of 
yourself to preserve, amid the most exciting sessions and 
rude, angry interruptions, the watchfulness and c olness 
of the sea-gull, that fishes when the tempest is the high- 
est, if once you are in the power of passion you will find 
yourself the weakest of the weak, trembling and cow- 
ardly to the extent of hanging desperately on the arm of 
an imbecile rather than to hear the slightest criticism 
of your idol. 

“Pardon, I must leave you. This is the enzy’acte,” 
said the minister, hurrying away, and sending back the 
young master of ceremonies to the obscurity which after- 
ward he will not be likely to leave. People push for- 
ward to the buffet; and the relieved looks of all these 
unfortunates, to whom motion and speech have been 
restored, would make Numa believe that his pvofégée had 
just had a great success. They throng around him, and 
congratulate him: “Divine!” “Delicious!” But no 
one speaks to him positively of what interests him; and 
he finally gets hold of Cardaillac, who is passing near 
him, walking sideways, and pushing back the human 
flood with his large shoulder as a lever. 

“Well, what did you think of her?” 


“Of whom, pray?” 
10 


142 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“The little one,” said Numa, in a tone that he tried to 
render indifferent. The other, good at parry and thrust, 
understood, and without flinching said, — 

“Tt is a revelation.” 

The lover blushed as at twenty, when 2’anctenne a@ tous 
touched his foot under the table, at Malmus’. 

“ Then you think that at the Opéra” — 

“Without doubt. But it needs a good showman,” 
said Cardaillac, with his quiet smile ; and, while the min- 
ister ran to take the good news to Mile. Alice, the show- 
man continued in the direction of the buffet, which stood 
framed by a broad glass in brown and gold wood-work, 
at the end of a hall. In spite of the harsh hangings, the 
arrogant and majestic air of the maitres @hétel, certainly 
chosen among the unsuccessful universities, ill-humor 
and ennui vanish before the large buffet laden with 
delicate crystal, fruits, and sandwiches in pyramid form, 
giving place — Nature re-asserting her need —to eager, 
voracious looks. At the smallest open space between 
two corsages, or two heads leaning towards a piece of 
salmon or the wing of a fowl on their little plate, an 
arm, a black sleeve, or a glittering rough epaulet, which 
brushes the rice-powder from fair shoulders, is extended 
for a glass, fork, or roll. 

Under the influence of old wines, people talk and 
become animated, and laughter rings out. A thousand 
remarks cross each other, a thousand are interrupted, 
and answers given to questions already forgotten. In 
one corner little screams of indignation, “ How horrible ! 
It is frightful!” were heard around the savant Béchut, 
the enemy of women, who continued to hurl epithets on 
the weaker sex. Then there was a quarrel among the 
musicians. 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 143 


“Ah! my dear fellow, take care. You are disregard- 
ing the upper fifth.’ 

“Ts it true that she is only sixteen?” 

“Sixteen years in the cask, and a few years in the 
bottle.” 

“Mayol, Mayol indeed! he is played out. And to 
think that he gets two thousand francs every evening at 
the Opéra!” 

“Ves; but it takes a thousand franc notes to warm his 
hall, and Cardaillac makes up the rest for him at cards.” 

“Bordeaux, chocolate, champagne.” 

“—_to come and explain himself in the privacy of 
the Commission.” 

“—_ by drawing up the ruche a little with white satin 
shells.” 

Then Mlle. Le Quesnoy, who has many around her, 
commends her tambourinist to a foreign correspondent, 
who has the impudent, flat face of a choumacre, begs 
him not to leave before the end, scolds Méjean, who 
does not support her, and treats him as a false South- 
erner, — a renegade. 

In a group at one side, politics is discussed; and a 
scornful mouth is put forward, shaping words to roll 
them like balls in the foam on the teeth, that they may 
spit forth poison. “All that the most subversive dem- 
agoguism —”’ 

“* — Marat a conservative !”” says a voice ; but the re- 
mark is lost in the general buzz of conversation, with the 
clashing of plates and glasses, which the copper-like 
timbre of Roumestan’s voice suddenly drowns. “Ladies, 
quick, ladies! You will miss the sonata in fa /” 

There was the silence of death ; and the long proces- 
sion of floating trains re-crosses the saéons, and rustles 


144 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


against the rows of chairs. The women wear the de- 
spondent faces of prisoners returned to their cells after 
an hour’s walk in the prison-yard. ‘The concertos and 
symphonies follow in turn, by dint of notes. The hand- 
some Mayol begins to spin out his weak notes, and Vau- 
ters tries the strained chords of her voice. There is a 
sudden commotion and curiosity as at the entrance of 
the little Bachellery. It is on account of Valmajcur’s 
tambourine, and the appearance of the superb peasant, 
with his soft felt cap over one ear, his red belt around 
his waist, and the peasant-jacket on his shoulder. It was 
an idea of Audiberte, an instinct of her woman’s taste, 
to dress him thus, to give more effect among the black 
coats. It was all very well; for the long tambourine 
swinging on the musician’s arm, and the little flute over 
which his fingers fly, and the pretty airs played on two 
instruments whose lively and stirring movement causes a 
thrill that gives a wavy look to beautiful satin shoulders, 
was something new and unexpected. The d/asé public is 
delighted with these perfectly fresh serenades, and re- 
frains of ancient France embalmed in rosemary. 

“Bravo, bravo, encore!” And when he attacks the 
“ March of Turenne” with a broad, victorious rhythm, 
which the orchestra accompanies in an undertone swell- 
ing, and sustaining the rather frail instrument, there is 
delirious enthusiasm. He has to return twice, a dozen 
times, applauded at the first bar by Numa, whose zeal 
has become warm again at this success, and who now 
gives himself the credit of “the fancy of the ladies.” 
He tells how he discovered this genius, and explains the 
wonders of the flute with three stops, and gives the de- 
tails about the old castle of the Valmajours. 

“Ts his name really Valmajour?” 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 145 


“Certainly. Descended from the princes of Baux: 
he is the last.” : 

And the legend is spread around and embellished, like 
a true romance of George Sand. 

“JT have the parchments at home,” affirms Bompard 
in a tone that will permit no reply. 

But, in the midst of this society enthusiasm more or 
less pretended, one poor little heart becomes moved, and 
a young head is carried away, and takes the bravos and 
legends seriously. Without saying a word, without even 
applauding, with eyes fixed and abstracted, her long 
supple figure following with a dreamy swaying the meas- 
ures of the heroic march, Hortense finds herself there in 
Provence, on the high steps overlooking the sunny land- 
scape, while her musician serenades her as a lady in the 
courts of love, and she fastens the pomegranate-flower to 
his tambourine with shy grace. This memory moves hex 
delightfully ; and, leaning her head on her sister’s shoul- 
der, she murmurs, “ Oh, how happy I am!” with a deep, 
true sentiment that Rosalie does not notice at once, but 
which later will become more evident, and haunt her like 
a whisper of misfortune. 

“ Eh, bé/ my worthy Valmajour, did I not tell you so? 
A great success, Aezz 7?” cried Roumestan in the little 
room where a lunch had been served for the artists. The 
other stars of the concert thought this success somewhat 
exaggerated. Vauters, who was sitting and waiting for 
her carriage, veiled her spite in a big lace hood which 
exhaled a pungent perfume ; while the handsome Mayol, 
who pretended to have a weak back, was standing be- 
fore the sideboard, and ferociously carving a bird, im. 
agining that he had the tambourinist under the blade of 
his knife. The little Bachellery shared none of this 


146 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


anger. She played the child among a group of young 
swells, laughing and fluttering about like a butterfly, tak- 
ing a full mouthful of bread and ham, like a growing 
schoolboy tormented by hunger. She tried Valmajour’s 
flute. 

“See, M’sieu le ministre.’ Then perceiving Car- 
daillac behind his Excellency, she gave a little pzrouezte, 
and held up her forehead to be kissed, like a little girl. 

“G'day, uncle.” 

It was an imaginary relationship, an adoption of the 
green-room. 

“ Giddy-headed humbug!” muttered the showman 
under his white mustache, but not too loud, for she was 
probably going to be an influential member of his theatre. 

Valmajour, surrounded by women and _ journalists, 
stood with a foppish air before the mantle-piece. The 
foreign correspondent questioned him rudely, no longer 
with the wheedling tone with which he examined minis- 
ters in private audiences; but the peasant, without dis- 
turbing himself, answered with his stereotyped story, “It 
came to me at night while listening to the nightingale.” 
He was interrupted by Mlle. Le Quesnoy, who handed 
him a glass of wine and a plate of refreshments. 

“ Good-evening, sir. It is now my turn to bring you 
the grand-boire,” she said; but her words failed to have 
their proper effect. He answered with a slight nod, 
pointing to the mantle-piece, “Very well, very well; put 
it there,” and continued his story. Hortense, without 
becoming discouraged, waited for the end, then spoke to 
him of his father and sister. 

“She will be very glad.” 

“Ves: it did not pass off badly.” 

With a foppish smile, he twirled his mustache, and 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 147 


cast an anxious look round him. They told him that 
the director of the Opéra wished to make him proposals. 
He watched him from a distance, already feeling the 
jealousy of an actor, and was astonished that any one 
could pay attention so long to that little singer who was 
nobody at all; and, absorbed in this thought, he did not 
take the trouble to answer the handsome young girl stand- 
ing before him, with her fan in her hands, in that pretty, 
half-bold attitude which is a habit of society. But she 
liked him better for being disdainful and cold about all 
that did not belong to his art. She admired him as he 
received from his height the compliments with which 
Cardaillac bombarded him in his brusque, plain way. 

“Yes indeed, yes indeed. [I tell you just what I think. 
Much talent, very original, very new. I do not wish any 
other theatre than the opera-house to have the first per- 
formance. I shall seek an opportunity to bring you out. 
From to-day you may look upon yourself as belonging to 
my theatre.” 

Valmajour thought of the stamped paper which he had 
in the pocket of his jacket; but Cardaillac, as if he 
divined his idea, held out his supple hand. “This is 
what binds both of us, my dear fellow,” he said, pointing 
to Mayol and La Vauters, who were happily occupied 
with something else, for they would have laughed too 
much, “Ask your comrades what the word of Cardail- 
lac is worth.” 

He turned upon his heels at this, and returned to the 
ball-room. Now there was dancing in the rooms that 
were the least crowded though the most lively, and the 
admirable orchestra avenged itself for three hours of clas- 
sical music by a succession of purely Viennese waltzes. 
The distinguished persons and the grave people having 


148 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


left, the place remained to the young, those mad lovers 
of pleasure, who dance for the sake of dancing, to have 
their hair fly wildly about in their dizzy whirl, to have 
their eyes in a misty blur, and their trains wound round 
their feet. Then, too, politics must be considered: the 
fusion dreamed of by Roumestan was hardly being ac- 
complished. One of the two sa/ons in which there was 
dancing was occupied by the Left Centre; the other by 
the spotless lily-white faction, in spite of Hortense’s 
efforts to unite the two parties. Being very zecherchée, 
the sister-in-law of the minister, and a daughter of the 
first president, she saw a flock of open vests hovering 
around her large fortune and influence. Lappara, who 
was very much excited, declared to her while dancing 
that his Excellency had permitted him — 

But the waltz coming to a close, she left him without 
waiting for the end of his sentence, and came to Méjean, 
who did not dance, and could not make up his mind to 
leave. 

“What a strange face you have, grave, reasoning man!” 
she said. 

He took her by the hand, saying, “Sit down here: I 
have something to say to you. Authorized by my minis- 
ter ?— 

He smiled, very much moved; and at the trembling 
of his lips Hortense understood, and rose very quickly. 

“No, not this evening. I cannot listen: I am going 
to dance ;” and she moved away on the arm of Roche- 
maure, who had come to claim her for the co#//on. He, 
too, was very much enamoured ; and, still imitating Lap- 
para, the good young man ventured to pronounce a word 
that made her start with a gay whirl, which she kept up 
all around the room; and, when the figure of the scarf 


EL oe a a eee ee oe ee ee 


AN EVENING AT THE MINISTRY. 149 


was ended, she went to her sister, and said in a low 
tone, — 

“We are in a nice position. Numa has promised me 
to his three secretaries.” 

“Which one will you have?” 

Her answer was cut short by a roll on the tambourine. 

“The farandole ! the farandole /”” A surprise of the 
minister to his guests, —the favandole to finish the cot/- 
Zon, the South carried to excess e¢ zow/ But how is it 
danced? Hands are held out and joined, and the sa/ons 
mingle this time. Bompard gravely explains, ‘This is 
the way, young ladies,” beating an em¢re-chat; and with 
Hortense at the head, the favando/e unwinds through the 
long row of salons, followed by Valmajour, who played 
with haughty gravity, proud of his success and the looks 
bestowed upon his manly and robust figure in his original 
costume. ‘“Isn’t it beautiful!” said Roumestan: “isn’t 
it beautiful! a Greek shepherd!” From room to room 
the rustic dance, being longer drawn out as more engage 
in it, pursues and drives away the shadow of Frayssinous. 
On the grand tapestries, after Boucher and Lancret, the 
people, aroused by the airs of old times, move faster, and 
the Cupids floating on the friezes seem in the eyes of the 
dancers to be flying along as madly as they. 

Yonder, at the extreme end of the room, is Cardaillac, 
leaning against a buffet, with a plate and glass in his 
hands, listening, eating, and drinking, and filled with the 
glow of pleasure to the depths of his sceptical nature. 

“ Remember, my boy,” he is saying to Boissaric, “ you 
must always remain until the end of the ball. Women 
are prettier in that dead paleness, which is not yet fatigue 
any more than this little white streak at the windows is yet 
day. ‘There is music in the air, perfumed dust, and a 


150 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


partial intoxication, which refines sensation, and which 
must be enjoyed while eating a piece of cold fowl, 
watered with iced wine. Here! look at me.” 

Behind the clear sheet of glass the dancers of the far- 
andole wound along, with arms extended, in a line of 
alternate black and light color, made irregular by the 
curving effect of toilets and head-dresses, and their 
crumpled appearance after two hours of dancing. 

“Ts it not pretty, Ze¢z 2? What a spirited ending ! what 
a sweep there is! But it will not bring in a sow,” he 
added coldly, setting down his glass. 


a 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 151 


CHAPTER X. 
NORTH AND SOUTH. 


BeTweEeEN President Le Quesnoy and his son-in-law 
there had never been much sympathy. Time, frequent 
intercourse, and the ties of relationship, had not dimin- 
ished the distance between these two natures, or removed 
the timid chill which the Southerner felt in the presence 
of this tall, silent man with a pale, haughty face, whose 
blue-gray eyes were Rosalie’s eyes without her tenderness 
and indulgence, and looked freezingly down on his enthu- 
siasm. Numa, who was wavering and fickle in character, 
and profuse in words, at once ardent and confused, re- 
belled against the logic, uprightness, and stern character 
of his father-in-law ; and, while envying him these quali- 
ties, attributed them to the coldness of the man of the 
extreme North, which the president represented. “After 
which comes the white bear; then nothing, the Pole, 
and death.” 

He flattered him, however, and tried to seduce him 
with artful, cat-like ways, baits wherewith to catch the 
Gaul; but the Gaul, deeper than he was, did not allow 
himself to be caught. And when they talked politics, on 
Sunday, in the dining-room of the Place Royale, when 
Numa, softened by the good cheer, really tried to con- 
vince the old Le Quesnoy that they were in fact very 
near understanding each other, both wishing the same 
thing, —liberty,— you should have seen the rebellious 


152 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


toss of the head with which the president shook himself 
out of his meshes. Ah! no, indeed: there was no point 
of union between them. In four close, concise argu- 
ments he re-established the distances, unmasked his 
words, and showed that he would not be deceived by 
their hypocrisy. The lawyer got out of it by joking, 
though greatly vexed at heart, especially on account of 
his wife, who, without ever interesting herself in politics, 
listened and looked on. ‘Then, when returning at even- 
ing in their carriage, he tried to prove to her that her 
father jacked good sense. Ah! if it had not been for 
her, he would have given him a splendid repulse. Rosa- 
lie, in order not to irritate him, avoided giving an opinion. 

“Ves, it is unfortunate: you do not understand each 
other,” she said ; but to herself she declared the presi- 
dent in the right. 

With Roumestan’s arrival at the ministry the coldness 
between the two men became more manifest. M. Le 
Quesnoy refused to show himself at the receptions in the 
Rue de Grenelle, and expressed himself very plainly to 
his daughter : — 

“Say to your husband, that he may continue to come 
to my house as often as possible, and that I shall be very 
happy to see him.; but he will never see me at the min- 
istry. I know what those people are preparing for us, 
and I do not wish to have the appearance of being an 
accomplice.” 

This situation was respected in the eyes of the world 
on account of the domestic affliction which had kept the 
Le Quesnoys walled up at home so long. The Minister 
of Public Instruction would probably have been very 
much annoyed to see in his sa/ons this vigorously contra- 


dicting man, before whom he was made to feel like a_ 


ee ee ee ee ee ee 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 153 


little boy: he affected, however, to appear wounded at 
this decision, and on account of it took an attitude, 
which is always very valuable to a comedian, and made 
it a pretext to appear only very irregularly at the Sunday 
dinners, where Rosalie often presented herself alone ; and 
he made those thousand excuses, commissions, re-unions, 
and banquets, which were incumbent upon him, and 
which give political husbands so wide a liberty. 

She, on the contrary, did not miss a Sunday. She 
arrived early in the afternoon, happy to gratify in the 
home of her parents her taste for the family circle, which 
Official life gave her little leisure to satisfy. If Mme. 
Le Quesnoy were still at vespers, and Hortense at church 
with her, or escorted to a musical madinée by some gen- 
tleman, she was sure to find her father in his library, a 
long room lined from floor to ceiling with books, shut up 
with these silent and intellectual confidants and friends, 
the only ones which his grief had not made him repel. 

The president did not seat himself to read, but looked 
over the shelves, stopped before a handsomely bound 
book, and still standing read, without being conscious of 
it, for an hour, aware neither of time nor fatigue. A wan 
smile passed over his face as he saw his eldest daughter 
enter. ‘They exchanged only a few words, for neither of 
them were talkers; and she, too, passed her beloved 
authors in review, chose a volume, and turned over the 
leaves in the rather sombre light of a large court of the 
Marais where the heavy tones of the vesper-bells near by 
fell on the Sunday silence of a business neighborhood. 
Sometimes he gave her a partly-opened book with the 
remark, — 

“Read this,” marking a line under it with his nail; 


and when she had read it he asked, — 
11 


154 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Ts it not beautiful?” 

There was no greater pleasure for this young woman, to 
whom life offered all that it could give that was brilliant 
and luxurious, than to be in this hour near her sad and 
aged father, towards whom her filial adoration was in- 
creased by the tie of intellectual sympathy. She owed 
to him her correctness of thought, and that sense of 
justice that made her so valiant, also her artistic taste, 
her love for painting and fine poetry ; for Le Quesnoy’s 
continual poring over questions of law had not left him 
like a mummy. 

Her mother Rosalie loved and venerated, though 
slightly rebelling against a nature that was very simple 
and mild, and of little power in her own house. She was 
one whom grief, which elevates certain souls, had bowed 
to the ground in the most common feminine occupations, 
in the small details of the household and also in piety. 
Though younger than her husband, she seemed older with 
her old-woman style of conversation, like one who, aged 
and saddened, seeks the warm corners of memory, and 
reminders of her childhood in a sunny home in the 
South. But the Church engaged her more than all else. 
Since the death of her son, she stifled her sorrow in the 
silence and coolness and in the dim light of lofty naves, 
where it was peaceful as in a cloister, shut out from the 
noisy sounds of life by heavy barred doors, with the self- 
ish and cowardly devoutness of despair which kneels 
before a prie-Dieu, and rids itself of cares and duties. 

Rosalie, who at the time of their misfortune was 
already a young lady, had noticed the different manner 
with which her parents yielded, — her mother renouncing 
every thing, and swallowed up in tearful religion, and her 
father asking strength to fulfil his duties. Her tender 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 155 


pieference for him was the choice of her reason. Mar- 
riage and every-day life, with the exaggerations, falsehood, 
and folly of her Southerner made her find the retirement 
of the quiet library still sweeter because it was so unlike 
the pretentious, cheerless official apartments of the min- 
ister. In the midst of their quiet talk, a door was heard 
to open, and there was a rustle of silk ; and Hortense en- 
tered. 

“‘T knew I should find you here,” she cried. 

She was not fond of reading. Even novels wearied 
her, for they were never romantic enough for her exalted 
state. After she had been moving about for five minutes 
with her hat on, she said, — 

“All these old papers make it smell close here: don’t 
you think so, Rosalie? Come with me a little while. 
Father has had you long enough. It is my turn now.” 

And she drew her into their room, which Rosalie had 
also occupied until her twentieth year. During an hour’s 
charming interview she looked around at all the objects 
which had made part of herself, — her bed with cretonne 
curtains, her desk, ¢/agéve, and book-case where a little of 
her childhood remained in the titles of the volumes, and 
her youth was lovingly preserved in a thousand trifles. 
She found the thoughts of the past in every corner of the 
room, which was that of a young girl, although more 
coquettish and adorned than when she occupied it. 
There was a carpet on the floor, a night-lamp in a corolla 
on the ceiling, and little fragile sewing and writing tables 
at every step. There was more elegance and less order. 
There were two or three kinds of partly finished work 
flung over the backs of some chairs, and an open desk 
filled with note-paper scattered about. When one entered, 
there was always a disturbance of half a second’s duration, 


156 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Tt is the wind,” said Hortense, bursting into laughter. 
“Tt knows that I adore it, and came to see if I were here.” 

“The window must have been left open,” answered 
Rosalie quietly. “I cannot imagine, for my part, how 
you can live here.” 

She rose to straighten a picture on the wall; for it 
troubled her eye, which was as true as her mind, 

“Tt is just the contrary with me: it stirs me. It seems 
to me that I am at sea,” said Hortense. 

This difference of nature was also to be found in the 
faces of the two sisters. Rosalie had regular features, 
with well-defined lines, calm eyes, and a color changing 
as a stream whose source is deep. Her sister had irregu- 
lar features on a pale creole complexion and a spirituelle 
expression. It was the North and South of the father 
and mother united without being blended, each perpetu- 
ating their race. Although their every-day life was the 
same, and they had the same education in a large board- 
ing-school, which had made her sister a serious, attentive 
woman, who thought wholly of the present moment, being 
absorbed in her slightest acts, the mind of Hortense be- 
came troubled, chimerical, and anxious, and was always 
excited. Sometimes, on seeing her so agitated, Rosalie 
would exclaim, — 

“T am very fortunate: I have no imagination.” 

“J have nothing else,” said Hortense ; and she reminded 
her that in M. Baudry’s course, which he pompously 
called his “ class of imagination,” in which he taught style 
and the development of thought, Rosalie had no success, 
expressing every thing in a few concise words ; while she 
herself, with only half of an idea, would blacken volumes. 
“The prize for imagination was the only one I ever had.” 

They were tenderly united, in spite of every thing, with 





NORTH AND SOUTH. 157 


the affection of an older for a younger sister, in which 
there is both the filial and maternal sentiment. Rosalie 
took her with her everywhere, —to balls, to calls on her 
friends, and while shopping, which so refines the taste of 
Parisian ladies. Even after leaving school she remained 
her little mother. And now she was busying herself in 
trying to marry her, —to find the quiet, safe companion 
indispensable to that giddy head, and the firm arm neces- 
sary to steady her in her impulsive movements. Méjean 
was pointed out; but Hortense, who at first had not 
objected, suddenly showed a marked antipathy. The 
sisters became confidants the day after the ministerial 
soirée, when Rosalie become aware of the emotion and 
trouble of Hortense. 

“Oh, he is good! I like him very well,” said Hortense. 
“ He is a loyal friend such as one would like to have near 
through life ; but he is not the husband I need.” 

“Why not?” 

“You will laugh, but he does not speak sufficiently to 
my imagination. Marriage with him looks to me like a 
rectangular dourgeotse house at the end of an alley as 
straight as the letter I. And you know that I like quite 
the reverse, the unforeseen, surprises.”’ 

“Who, then, have you in mind? M. de Lappara?”’ 

“Thanks, if he does not prefer his tailor to me.” 

““M. de Rochemaure ?”’ 

“The model scribbler : I who have a horror of writing- 
paper !”’ 

And as Rosalie, wishing in her anxiety to know all, 
questioned her closely, the young girl said, while a light 
flush like a straw-colored flame suffused her pale face, 
“What I would like” — Then her voice changed with 


a comical expression. 
11 


158 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“T would like to marry Bompard, — yes, Bompard is 
the husband of my dreams. At least he has imagination 
as a resource against monotony.” 

She rose, walked up and down the room, with her head 
thrown forward, which made her seem taller than she 
was. People did not know Bompard —what pride he 
had, what a dignified life he led, and how logical with all 
his madness. ‘‘ Numa wished to give him a place near 
him, and he would not accept it. He preferred to live 
on his chimera. Yet they accuse the South of being 
practical and industrious. Here is one who belies the 
legend. Stay! it comes to me now, —he told me about 
it at the ball the other evening, —he has an incubator 
which will hatch ostrich-eggs. He is sure to earn millions. 
He is much happier than if he had them. Why, that man 
is always a magician! Give me Bompard. I wish only 
Bompard.” 

“Well, I shall find out nothing more to-day,” thought 
the older sister, who divined something deep under this 
badinage. 

One Sunday Rosalie, on arriving, found in the ante- 
chamber Mme. Le Quesnoy waiting for her, who said to 
her mysteriously, — 

“There is some one in the sa/on, —a lady from the 
South.” 

“Aunt Portal?” 

“You will see.”’ 

Tt was not Mme. Portal, but a smart-looking Provencal 
girl, whose rustic bow ended in a burst of laughter. 

“ Hortense !” 

With her skirt meeting her flat shoes, her corsage en- 
larged by the tulle folds of her broad fichu, her face 
framed by the falling waves of hair confined by the little 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 159 


fap ornamented with stamped velvet embroidered with 
jet butterflies, Hortense resembled the “ chazo’”’ that one 
sees on Sunday coquetting on the Lice d’Arles, or walk- 
ing two by two with half-closed eyes between the columns 
of the cloister of St. Trophyme, whose delicate carving 
harmonizes with the Sarrasine carnations and with the 
church ivory where in broad daylight glimmer the clear 
rays of a taper. 

“ Do you think she is pretty ?”’ said the mother, charmed 
at this living personification of the country of her youth. 
Rosalie, on the contrary, involuntarily shuddered with 
sadness, as if this costume carried her sister far, far away 
from her. 

“That is a strange fancy. It becomes you; but I like 
you even better as a Parisian lady. Who dressed you so 
well?” 

“ Audiberte Valmajour. She has just left here.” 

“ How often she comes!” said Rosalie, passing into 
their room to take off her hat. ‘What a friendship! I 
shall be jealous.” 

Hortense, somewhat embarrassed, made excuses. It 
gave pleasure to their mother to see this Southern head- 
dress worn in the house. 

“Does it not, mother?” she cried from one room to 
the other. Then this poor girl was so out of her element 
in Paris, and so interesting in her blind devotion to the 
genius of her brother ! 

“ Genius !’”’ said the elder sister, shaking her head. 

“Certainly. You saw the other evening at your house 
what an effect it produced, and it is the same every- 
where.” And Rosalie answered that it was necessary to 
consider at its true worth this society success founded on 
favor, on “ chic,” and the caprice of a sotrée. 


160 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Vet he is at the Opéra,” Hortense replied. The 
velvet band on the little cap stirred rebelliously, as if it 
had really covered one of those exalted heads whose 
proud profile it accompanies in the South. Besides, 
these Valmajours, unlike other peasants, were the last 
representatives of a noble decayed family — 

Rosalie, who was standing before the tall psyche, 
turned round laughing, — 

“What ! you believe that legend?” 

“Why, of course. They come directly from the 
Princes des Baux. ‘They have the papers, and the arms 
on their rustic door. The day they wish” — 

Rosalie shuddered. Behind the peasant player of the 
flute, was the prince. With any one who had received a 
prize for imagination, that fact might become dangerous. 

“There is no truth in it,” but she laughed no more: 
“there exist in the region of the Aps ten families of 
this soz-disan¢ princely name. Whoever told you any 
thing else lied through vanity, through” — 

“Why, it was Numa, your husband. The other even- 
ing at the ministry he gave all the facts.” 

“Oh! with him, you know, matters must be put ina 
favorable light, as he says.” 

Hortense was no longer listening. She had returned 
to the sadon, and, being seated at the piano, was singing 
in a ringing voice, — 

“ Mount’ as passa ta matinado, 
Mourbiet, Marioun?” 


It was to an air grave as church-music, an ancient 
popular song of Provence, which Numa taught his sister- 
in-law, and which he amused himself in hearing her sing, 
with her Parisian accent, which, gliding over the Southern 


ba. « 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 161 


articulations, made one think of Italian pronounced by 
an English lady. 


“ Where have you been all the morning, #zorbleu, Marioun? 
At the spring, drawing water, God knows, my dear. 
What fellow was talking with you, morb/eu, Marioun? 

A lady companion of mine, God knows, my dear. 
Women do not wear breeches, #zorb/ez, Marioun. 

Her dress clung tightly around her, God knows, my dear. 
Women carry no sword, morblex, Marioun. 

?Twas her braid hanging down, God knows, my dear. 
Women wear no mustaches, mzorb/e2, Marioun. 

She was eating some mulberries, God knows, my dear. 
Mulberries do not ripen in May, ord/e2, Marioun. 

It was a branch of last autumn, God knows, my dear. 
Bring me a plateful, #zorb/eu, Marioun. 

Little birds have eaten them all, God knows, my dear. 
I will cut off your head, mord/eu, Marioun. 

What will you do with what’s left, my God, my dear? 
Throw it out of the window, m07é/eu, Marioun, 

For a feast for the cats and the dogs.” 


She interrupted herself to toss off, with the gesture and 
intonation of Numa, when he became excited, “There, 
do you see, my children? It is as fine as Shakspeare.” 

“Ves; a tableau of customs,” said Rosalie, drawing 
near. ‘The husband is rude and brutal ; and the wife is 
feline in her nature and untruthful,—a true Southern 
household.” 

“Oh, my daughter!’ said Mme. Le Quesnoy in a 
tone of gentle reproach, the habitual one of former 
quarrels. 

The piano-stool turned quickly round on its pivot, and 
brought opposite Rosalie the cap of the indignant Pro- 
vencal girl. 

“That is too much. What has the South done to 
you? As for me, I adore it. I did not know it, but thai 


162 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


journey you made me take revealed to me my true 
country. It is in vain that I was baptized at St. Paul: 
I belong to that region, and am a child of the A/aceéte. 
You know, mamma, one of these days we will plant these 
cold Westerners here, and both of us will go and live in 
our beautiful South, where people sing and dance, — the 
South of the wind, the sun, the mirage, and whatever 
rounds out life, and makes it poetical. J¢ 7s there that TJ 
would U-t-ive,” and her skilful hands touched the piano 
again, dispersing her dream in a drvouhaha of ringing 
notes. 
“Not a word of the tambourine,” thought Rosalie. 
“Tt is serious.” It was even more serious than she 
imagined. On the very day that Audiberte saw the 
young lady fasten a flower to her brother’s tambourine, a 
splendid vision of the future arose in her ambitious mind, 
which had some influence in the transplanting of her 
family. The reception that Hortense gave when she 
went to lay her complaints before her, and her eagerness 
in running to meet Numa, strengthened an as yet vague 
hope. And then, slowly, without broaching the subject 
to the men of her family other than by an occasional 
quiet word, and gliding and creeping along, she prepared 
the way with her almost Italian duplicity. From the 
kitchen in the Place Royale, where she began by timidly 
waiting in a corner on the edge of a chair, she made her 
way to the sa/on, and, with dress and hair always neat, 
sat in the background like a poor relation. Hortense 
raved about her, and showed her to her friends as a 
pretty trinket brought from that Provence of which she 
spoke with so much ardor. And Audiberte, making her- 
self more simple than by nature itself, exaggerated her 
rustic timidity, and, repressing her disgust at the dull sky 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 163 


of Paris, burst forth into very pretty exclamations of 
“ Boudiou,” by which she tried to make herself appear 
like the artless girl of the play. The president himself 
smiled at this dozdiou; and to make the president smile ! 

But it was at the young girl’s house when alone with 
her that she brought into play all her coaxing, feline 
ways. Suddenly she would kneel at her feet, take her 
hands, and go into ecstasies over the slightest grace of 
her toilet, her style of making a ribbon bow, and dressing 
her hair, uttering to her face those bold compliments that 
nevertheless give pleasure, because they seem so sponta- 
neous and artless. When the young lady alighted from 
her carriage before the as, she thought she saw in her 
person the queen of the angels, and was so overcome 
that she could not speak ; and her brother, Aécazré, when 
hearing the carriage that brought the Parisian lady grate 
over the stones as it came down the hill, said that it 
seemed to him as if those stones fell one by one on his 
heart. She dwelt on this brother, his pride and anxiety. 
Why should he be anxious, I should like to know? Since 
the minister’s sozrée all the papers had spoken of him, 
and his picture was everywhere, and he had more invita- 
tions to the Faubourg of St. Germain than he could 
accept. Duchesses and countesses wrote him perfumed 
notes, with crests on the paper, as on the carriages which 
they sent for him; but then he was not happy, poor 
fellow ! 

All this spoken low in Hortense’s ear communicated 
to her a little of the fever, and affected her through the 
magnetic will of the peasant-girl: so, without looking at 
her, she asked if Valmajour had not perhaps a sweet- 
heart waiting for him in the country. 

“He, a sweetheart? Avai/ you do not know him. 


164 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


He thinks too much of himself to wish a peasant. The 
most wealthy women are after him,—one of the Com- 
bettes, and another woman; and girls are trying to flirt 
with him,—I couldn’t tell you how many,—and he 
hasn’t so much as looked at one of them. Who can tell 
what is going on in his mind? Oh these artists!” 

And this word, that was new to her, sounded on her 
ignorant lips like some indefinable term, similar to the 
Latin of mass, or like a cabalistic formula found in the 
“Grand-Albert.” The inheritance of cousin Puyfourcat 
was mentioned very often in her artful remarks. ‘There 
are few families in the South, whether artisans or dour- 
geois, who have not their cousin Puyfourcat, the seeker 
of adventures, who sets off in his youth, and who never 
writes home, and whom they love to fancy very rich. It 
is a lottery-ticket dated a long time ahead, an imaginary 
venture on a remote prospect of fortune which one at 
last firmly believes real. Audiberte had faith in the 
cousin’s inheritance, and she spoke of it to the young 
girl less to dazzle her than to diminish the social distance 
separating them. At Puyfourcat’s death the brother 
would buy back Valmajour, have the castle rebuilt, and 
make valid his title of nobility, since every one said that 
the necessary proof existed. 

At the conclusion of these long talks, prolonged some- 
times until twilight, Hortense remained silent a long time, 
with her forehead leaning against the window-pane, and 
beheld rise before her in a rosy winter sunset the lofty 
towers of the restored castle, with the platform of the 
steps gay with streams of light, and serenades in honor 
of the lady of the manor. 

“ Boudiou, how late it is!” cried the peasant, seeing 
that she had led her to the point where she wished her to 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 165 


remain; “and the dinner of my men is not ready. I 
must run.” 

Valmajour often came to wait for her below, but she 
never allowed him to go up stairs. She felt he was so 
awkward and rough, and had no thought of fascinating 
the young lady. Audiberte as yet had no need of him. 

Another person who embarrassed her, and whom it 
was difficult to avoid, was Rosalie, with whom the kitten- 
ish ways and pretended artlessness had no influence. In 
her presence Audiberte, her terrible black eyebrows 
deeply wrinkled, stopped talking; and in the silence 
there rose up within her a hatred of race, and a weak, 
sour, and vindictive anger against the most serious obsta- 
cle to her plans. This was her real complaint, but she 
confessed others to the little sister. Rosalie did not like 
the tambourine: then “she was not faithful to church 
service ;”’ and a woman who is not, don’t you see? Au- 
diberte was so, in the extreme: she did not miss a single 
service, and always was present at communion. ‘That 
did not influence her at all in her morals ; for she was a 
liar, a hypocrite, and violent even to a criminal degree, 
finding in texts only precepts for vengeance and hatred. 
Yet she remained a virtuous girl in the feminine sense of 
the word. Although she was twenty-eight years old, and 
had a pretty face, she preserved, in the common society 
in which they now moved, the severe chastity of her 
thick peasant’s fichu which was drawn tightly over a 
heart that had beaten only with sisterly ambition. 


“ Hortense makes me anxious. Look at her.” 

Rosalie, to whom her mother confided this in a corner 
of the sa/on at the ministry, believed that Mme. Le Ques- 
noy shared her mistrust; but the mother’s remark ap- 


166 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


plied to the health of Hortense, who had not succeeded 
in being cured of a severe cold. Rosalie looked at her 
sister. She still had her dazzling complexion, vivacity, 
and gayety. She still coughed a little, but what of it? all 
Parisian ladies do after the season of balls. The fine 
weather would very soon cure her. 

“ Have you spoken of her to Jarras?”’ 

Jarras was a friend of Roumestan, a former haditué of 
the Café Malmus. He said that it was not serious, and 
advised the waters of Arvillard. 

“She must go there,” said Rosalie eagerly, delighted 
at having this excuse for carrying off Hortense. 

“Yes ; but your father will be left all alone.” 

“T will go and see him every day.” 

And suddenly the poor mother confessed with sobs the 
dread that this journey with her daughter gave her. For 
a whole year she had to run about thus to watering- 
places for the child they had already lost. Was she 
going to make the same pilgrimage over again, with the 
same frightful end in prospect? ‘The other was taken in 
his twentieth year, in his full health and strength. 

“Q mamma, mamma! will you be silent?” said 
Rosalie, gently scolding her. Hortense was not ill: the 
physician said so. This journey would be simply a dis- 
traction. Arvillard, the Dauphiny Alps, was a wonderful 
country. She herself would really like to accompany 
Hortense. Unfortunately she could not, — important rea- 
sons. 

“ Yes, I understand, — your husband, the ministry.” 

“Oh, no! it is not that.” 

And to her mother, in the confidence of heart which 
they could rarely enjoy together, she whispered, — 


NORTH AND SOUTH. 167 


“Listen ; but it is for yourself alone, for no one knows 
it, not even Numa.” 

Then she confessed the as yet very faint hope of a 
great happiness of which she had despaired, which made 
her wild with joy and fear,—the new hope of a child 
perhaps to come to her. 


168 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER XZ 


A WATERING-PLACE, 


‘* ARVILLARD-LES-BAINS, Aug, 2, 1876. 


“TT is a very curious place from which I write you. 
Imagine a very high, square hall, paved, stuccoed, and 
full of echoes, where the light from two large windows is 
veiled to the lowest panes by blue curtains, and darkened 
even more by a kind of floating mist impregnated with 
sulphur, that clings to clothing and tarnishes gold jew- 
elry. Inside, people are sitting near the walls on benches, 
chairs, and stools, around little tables ; they look at their 
watches every minute, and rise and leave to make place 
for others, disclosing each time, through the partly open 
door, a crowd of bathers walking in the light vestibule, 
and the fluttering white aprons of servant-girls hurrying 
along. Thereis no noise: on the contrary, it is as sol- 
emn as in a church, notwithstanding all the commotion, 
and the continual murmur of low-voiced conversation, 
the unfolding of newspapers, and the scratching of pens. 
In the middle of the hall is a large fountain of refreshing 
mineral water, whose force is broken against a metallic 
disk, from which it falls in innumerable jets, and with a 
musical trickle, into vase after vase, then rises in foam. 
It is the hall of inhalation. 

“T must tell you, my darling, that all the world do not 
inhale alike. Thus the old gentleman who is opposite 
me this moment follows the physician’s prescriptions to 


A WATERING-PLACE. 169 


the letter. I recognize them all. He sits with his feet 
on a cricket, his chest expanded, elbows drawn in, and 
the mouth always open to facilitate breathing. Poor 
dear man, how he inhales! with what confidence, how . 
quietly, and with what little round, devout, credulous 
eyes, which seem to say to the fountain, ‘Oh, fount of 
Arvillard, see how [I inhale you, and how much faith I 
have in you! cure me!’ Then we have the sceptic, who 
inhales as if unintentionally, with his back turned, shrug- 
ging his shoulders, and looking at the ceiling. Then 
there are the discouraged ones, true invalids, who feel the 
uselessness and worthlessness of it all; for instance, a 
poor lady, my neighbor, who carries her finger quickly to 
her mouth after every cough, to see if her glove has not 
a red spot on its finger. And yet they manage to be just 
as gay as ever. Ladies in the same hotel draw their 
chairs together, sit in groups, and embroider, gossip in 
low voices, and comment on the contents of the ‘ Bather’s 
Journal’ and the list of arrivals. Young persons display 
English romances with red covers, and priests read their 
breviary. There are many priests at Arvillard, especially 
missionaries, with heavy beards and yellow faces, and 
subdued voices from having long preached the word of 
God. As for me, you know that romances are not to my 
taste, especially romances of to-day, in which every thing 
is founded on real life. I carry on my correspondence 
with two or three selected victims, — Marie Béruvier, 
Aurélie Dansaert, and you, my big sister, whom I adore. 
You must expect real journals. Think of it! two hours 
inhalation four times a day. No one here inhales so long 
as I do, which means that I am a genuine phenomenon. 
People look at me a great deal for this reason, and I am 


quite proud of it. There is no other treatment, however, 
12 


170 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


excepting the glass of mineral water which I go to the 
fountain to drink morning and evening, and which must 
triumph over the obstinate veil which this ugly cold has 
left on my voice. The cure of bronchial troubles is a 
specialty of the Arvillard waters, and therefore singers 
make this a resort. The handsome Mayol has just left 
us with almost new vocal chords. Mlle. Bachellery, you 
know, the little ava of your /é/e, finds so much benefit 
from the treatment, that, after having finished the three 
regular weeks, she has begun three more, for which the 
‘Bather’s Journal’ gives her much praise. We have the 
honor of living in the same hotel with this young and 
illustrious person, who is peculiarly dressed by a tender 
mother from Bordeaux, who at the 7éd/e d’héte forces her 
appetite by salad, and talks about the hat that cost one 
hundred and forty francs, and was worn by her young 
daughter at the last Zongchamps. A delightful couple, 
who are very much admired by us. 

“They pride themselves on the pretty ways of Baby, 
as her mother calls her, her laugh and vow/ades, and the 
fluttering of her short skirt. People crowd in front of 
the hotel to see her play croquet with the little girls and 
boys, — she plays only with very little ones, — and run, 
jump, and throw her ball like a real romp. ‘I am going 
to roquet you, M. Paul,’ she says. 

“Every one thinks, ‘She is such a child!’ But I be- 
lieve this pretended childishness, like her skirts with big 
bows and her way of wearing her hair, is part of a 7é/e. 
Then, she has such an extraordinary way of embracing 
that stout Bordelaise woman, of hanging round her neck, 
and of being trotted on her knee, and clasped to her 
bosom before every one! You know how caressing I am 
naturally: well, truly, I should be ashamed to embrace 


A WATERING-PLACE. 17 


mamma in that manner. A very curious family too, but 
less gay, is that of the Prince and Princess d’Anhalt, 
who, with their daughter, governess, /emmes-de-chambre, 
and suite, occupy all the first story of the hotel in which 
they are the distinguished characters. I often meet the 
princess on the stairs, ascending step by step, and sup- 
ported by the arm of her husband, a handsome, dashing 
man in a hat trimmed with blue gimp, whose face is 
radiant with health. She is carried to the establishment 
in a chair ; and it is heart-rending to see the pale, hollow 
face behind the little glass window, and the father and 
child walking at her side, the child very sickly and hay- 
ing every feature of her mother, and perhaps also her 
malady. ‘The little eight-year-old, who is forbidden to 
play with the other children, and from the balcony of the 
hotel sadly watches the games of croquet and the riding- 
parties, is lonely. They think she is too high-born for 
common amusements, and prefer to keep her in the 
gloomy atmosphere of the dying mother, or near the 
father, who escorts her round with an arrogant and weary 
face, or leaves her to the servants. But, heavens! no- 
bility is, then, a pest, a malady, that is on the increase. 
These people eat by themselves in a little parlor, and 
inhale apart,—for there are halls for families, — and 
imagine how dismal must be such a #/e-d-/é¢e with that 
woman and child, as if in a great silent cave ! 

“The other evening, there were very many of us in the 
large parlor on the ground-floor where people assemble 
for light games, singing, and sometimes even for dancing. 
Mamma Bachellery came to accompany Baby in a cava, 
tina of an opera. ‘We wish to appear in the opera. 
We even came to Arvillard to recuperate our voice for 
that,’ according to the mother’s elegant expression. 


172 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Suddenly the door opened, and the princess appeared: 
stately in her languor and her elegance, and wrapped in 
a lace mantle which concealed the frightful and signifi- 
cant thinness of her shoulders. The child and the 
husband followed. 

“Continue, I beg you,’ coughs the poor woman. Then 
the stupid little singer goes and chooses the most heart- 
rending and sentimental romance in all her repertoire, 
“Vorrei Morir,’* an Italian song similar to our ‘Dead 
Leaves,’ about an invalid who fixes the date of her death 
in autumn, to give herself the illusion that all nature, 
enveloped in the early mist as in a shroud, is expiring 
with her. 

‘Vorrei morir ne la stagion dell’ anno.’ 

“The air is graceful, and of a sadness that prolongs 
the caress of the Italian words. The desire to live until 
autumn, the entreaty for a truce and respite in ‘the 
malady, had a painfully touching effect in the large 
parlor, where through the open windows came the sweet 
smells, floating objects, and the cool breezes of a beautiful 
summer night. The princess, without saying a word, arose 
and abruptly left the room. In the darkness of the 
garden I heard a deep sob, and a man’s voice gently 
chiding, and the tearful tones of a child that sees its 
mother in sorrow. 

“Watering-places are made sad by these painful cases 
of ill health, by the obstinate coughs, heard so plainly 
through the walls of the hotel, handkerchiefs carefully 
held to the mouth to avoid the air, by the confidential 
talk whose meaning can be divined by sorrowful ges- 
tures always pointing to the chest or shoulder in the 
region of the collar-bone, and by the slow dreamy walk, 


1 “T long to die.” — Trans. 


A WATERING-PLACE. ye 


the mind of the invalid being intent on the malady. 
Poor mamma, who knows every stage of lung-troubles, 
says that at Eaux-Bonnes and Mount Dore it is very 
different from what it is here. They send to Arvillard 
only convalescents like myself, or desperate cases which 
nothing can help. Fortunately in our hotel des adlpes 
Dauphinoises there are only three invalids of this kind, 
—the princess, and two young persons from Lyons, a 
brother and sister, and orphans, who are very wealthy, it 
is said, and seem to be in the last stages, — especially the 
sister, who has the wan face of a drowned person; and 
also some ladies from Lyons, who, without a jewel or 
ribbon, being indifferent to coquettish adornment, wear 
wrappers with knit shawls wound round them. This 
wealthy lady looks forlorn ; for she is given up, and knows 
it, and yields to despair. On the contrary, in the young 
man with a stooping figure, who is pinched in a tight 
fashionable jacket, there is a painful determinstion to 
live, and an incredible resistance to the malady. 

“My sister has no elasticity, but I have,’ he said at 
table the other day, in a voice so worn that it sounded 
like the note C of Vauters, when she sings. In fact, he 
has remarkable elasticity. He is the leading spirit in the 
hotel, the organizer of plays, parties, and excursions ; he 
rides horseback and on a small kind of sledge laden with 
branches, on which the mountaineers of the country drag 
one down the steepest declivities; he also waltzes and 
fences, all the while shaken by frightful coughing which 
does not cease for an instant. We have another case, a 
medical subject, Dr. Bouchereau ; the one, you remem- 
ber, mamma went to consult about our poor André. I 
do not know that he recognized us, but something very 
par: cena “aes between us. 


174 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“T have just come from drinking my half-glass at the 
spring. ‘This precious spring is only a ten-minutes’ walk, 
as you ascend in the direction of the tall furnaces, and is 
situated in a gorge where a torrent, with moss-like foam, 
comes rolling down from the glacier, shining and clear, 
which shuts off the perspective between the blue Alps. 
Its invisible, snowy base seems to continually melt and 
become lost in the white, tossing waters. Imagine large 
black rocks dripping drop after drop among the heather 
and lichens, plantations of fir-trees of sombre verdure, 
and a soil in which fragments of mica sparkle in the 
charcoal-dust, and you will know the place. But what I 
cannot describe to you is the terrific noise, the torrent 
dashing against the stones, the trip-hammer of a saw-mill 
which it sets in motion, and in a narrow gorge, over a 
route that is always encumbered, the carts full of coal, 
and a line of animals and parties of excursionists, some 
going to drink the waters, and some returning. I forgot 
to mention the appearance, at the threshold of several 
wretched houses, of horrible male or female dwarfs with 
flat, stupid faces, with open mouths, muttering, and dis- 
playing a hideous goitre. Cretinism is one of the pro- 
ductions of the country. It seems that nature here is 
too strong for man, and that the minerals —iron, cop- 
per, and sulphur — repress, distort, and stifle him; that 
this water from the mountain-tops freezes him as it does 
the poor trees that grow up dwarfed between two rocks. 
It is another of those impressions made on arrival, the 
sadness and horror of which disappear after a few days. 

“Now, instead of flying from them, I have my favorite 
victims of the goitre,—one in particular, a frightful little 
monster who sits on the side of the road in the arm-chair 
of a three-years-old child, although he is sixteen, the 


A WATERING-PLACE. 175 


exact age of Mlle. Bachellery, When I approach he 
wags his head, which is as heavy as a stone, and utters a 
hoarse cry, while looking subdued and seemingly uncon- 
scious; but, as soon as he receives a silver piece, he 
triumphantly holds it up to a charcoal-woman, who is 
watching him from the corner of a window. ‘This unfor- 
tunate is a fortune envied by many mothers, and brings 
in more than his three brothers, who work in the furnaces 
of La Debout. The father does nothing: he is a con- 
sumptive, and passes the winter at his miserable fireside, 
and in summer sits with other invalids on a bench in the 
warm mist that the boiling spring gives forth. The 
nymph of the place, with a white apron and dripping 
hands, fills to the desired measure the glasses held out to 
her, while in the court at the side, separated from the 
road by a low wall, are seen faces, —the bodies belonging 
to them being invisible — that are thrown backward, with 
mouths wide open, while grimacing in the sunlight and 
contorted in the effort of drinking, and illustrating the 
hell of Dante, with the damned condemned to gargle. 
Sometimes, on leaving there, we return to the establish- 
ment by the longest way, and go down through the 
country. Mamma, whom the noise of the hotel wearies, 
and who, more than all, fears lest I dance too much in 
the sa/on, had an idea of hiring a small dourgeois house 
in Arvillard, where vacant ones are to be found. There 
are notices at every door, and on every story, swaying 
among the window-plants, between light and inviting cur- 
tains. One really wonders what becomes of the inhabit- 
ants during the season. Do they camp out in companies 
on the neighboring mountains, or do they live at the ho- 
tel for fifty francs a day? ‘The latter would astonish me ; 
for the longing of their eyes when they look at the 


176 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


bather seems to me dangerously rapacious, — something 
that glitters and enchains one. I find everywhere the 
glittering look, and sudden brightening-up of the fore- 
head, of my little fellow with the goitre, and the reflection 
of his silver coin. Behind the spectacles of the frisky 
little physician who sounds my lungs every morning ; in 
the eye of the kind, fair-spoken ladies who invite you to 
visit their houses, which have kitchens on the ground- 
floor, sleeping-rooms on the third story, and convenient 
gardens filled with small pools of water; in the eye of 
drivers in short blouses and blackened hats, with broad 
ribbons, who beckon to you from the top of their vehi- 
cles to hire them; in the look of the little driver of 
asses standing before the stable, whose open door dis- 
closes long, wagging ears within ; and even in the large, 
gentle, and wilful eyes of the asses, I have seen the 
metallic harshness that the love of money gives: it is 
real. 

“Tn addition their houses are frightful, shut in, gloomy, 
and without a view, and having every kind of inconven- 
ience which cannot be concealed, because in the next 
house they are pointed out to you. We will decidedly 
hold to our caravansary of the Alpes Dauphinoises, with 
its innumerable green blinds against the red brick glaring 
in the sunlight on the height, and in the middle of an 
English park still new, with a hedge, a labyrinth, and 
gravelled walks, the enjoyment of which it shares with 
five or six other substantial hotels, — La Chevrette, La 
Laita, Le Bréda, La Planta. 

“ All these hotels with Savoyard names are in fierce 
competition: they spy and watch each other over the 
clusters of trees, and try to see which can make the most 
noise with beils, pianos, the cracking of the postilion’s 


A WATERING-PLACE. iy | 


whip, and of fireworks, and which will open its windows 
the widest, that the life, laughter, singing, and dancing 
may cause travellers opposite to say, ‘What a good time 
they have over yonder! how many people must be stop- 
ping there !’ 

“But the warmest battle between the rival inns is 
waged in the ‘ Bather’s Journal,’ in the lists of arrivals, 
which the little sheet gives with great promptitude twice 
a week. 

“What envy and rage at the Laita and the Planta, when 
they read, for example, ‘Prince and Princess d’Anhalt, 
and their suite, Alpes Dauphinoises.’ Every thing pales 
before this crushing line. How can they answer it? 
They set their wits to work, and if you have a de, or any 
title whatsoever, they make a lavish display of it. The 
Chevrette serves up the same inspector of forests in three 
different ways,— inspector, marquis, and chevalier of 
Saints Maurice and of Lazarus; but the Alpes Dauphin- 
oises is still in greatest favor without our having any thing 
to do with it. You know how modest and timid mamma 
is. She forbade Fanny telling who we were, because the 
position of our father, and that of your husband, would 
have drawn around us too much curiosity, and have made 
us too conspicuous. ‘The journal simply said, ‘ Mesdames 
Le Quesnoy (from Paris), Alpes Dauphinoises ;’ and, 
as Parisians are rare, our zcogni¢o has not been revealed. 
We have two very plain, quite convenient rooms, on the 
second floor, with the whole valley before us, a circle of 
mountains black with fir-trees beyond, over which play 
lights and shadows with lines of perpetual snow, and bar- 
ren slopes interspersed with cultivated patches of green, 
yellow, and pink, among whick hay-stacks seem no larger 
than bee-hives ; but this beautiful view does not keep us 


178 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


in the house much of the time. In the evening people 
assemble in the parlor, in the daytime they wander 
through the park for the treatment, which, added to this 
life that is so well-filled and yet so empty, wholly engages 
one’s time. The lively hour is after breakfast, when peo- 
ple group around little tables under the large linden-trees 
at the entrance of the garden to take coffee. It is the 
hour of arrivals and departures: people are shaking 
hands and bidding farewell around the stage, and the 
servants at the hotel hurry to and fro, their eyes bright 
with the famous Savoyard glitter. People who hardly 
know each other embrace, handkerchiefs are waving, 
and bells ringing; then the heavy, swaying vehicle dis- 
appears through the narrow roads, half-way down the 
hill, and the names and faces which for a moment 
have made part of the common life, and were unknown 
yesterday, will be forgotten to-morrow. 

“Others arrive, and fall into their places. I imagine 
that such is the monotony of steamers, with new faces at 
every landing. All this commotion amuses me; but our 
dear mamma is very sad and very thoughtful, in spite of 
the smile she puts on when I look at her. I suppose that 
every detail of our life brings her a painful memory, and 
calls up sad images. She saw so many of these invalids 
during the year that she accompanied our dying brother 
from place to place, through plains, over mountains, or 
under the pines at the seashore, with her hopes always 
disappointed, and at last being obliged to crown her 
martyrdom with resignation. Certainly Jarras ought to 
have avoided reminding her of her sorrows ; for I am not 
ill: I cough hardly at all; and with the exception of my 
ugly hoarseness, which gives me the voice of a green-pea 
vender on the street, I have never been so well. I have 


A WATERING-PLACE. 179 


the appetite of a fiend, imagine it, —a terrible appetite, 
which makes it impossible to wait for meals a moment. 
Yesterday, after a breakfast of thirty dishes, with a Dill 
of fare more varied than the Chinese alphabet, I sawa 
woman displaying strawberries before her door, and sud- 
denly a fit of hunger took me. ‘Two bowls, my dear, two 
bowls of those big, fresh strawberries, ‘the fruit of the 
country,’ as our waiter says! ‘That describes the condi- 
tion of my stomach. Never mind, my darling: how for- 
tunate it is that neither you nor I have taken the malady 
of that poor brother whom I hardly knew, and whose 
pinched features and look of discouragement, in his por- 
trait in our parents’ room, I find here again on other faces. 
What an original this physician, the famous Bouchereau, 
is, who used to attend him! The other day mamma 
wished to present me to him: and in order to secure a 
consultation we roamed around the park in pursuit of 
the grand old man with a rough, hard face; but he was 
very closely surrounded by the physicians of Arvillard, 
who were listening to him with the humility of scholars. 
Then we waited for him at the door of the inhaling-room ; 
but it was time wasted. Our man began to walk away as 
if he wished to escape us. With mamma, you know, one 
does not walk very quickly ; and we missed him again. 
Finally, yesterday morning Fanny went in our behalf to 
request her governess to ask if he would receive us. He 
answered that he came to this watering-place for his 
health, and nov to give consultations. You see what a 
boor he is. Really, I never saw any one so pale, so wax- 
like: father is a man of very bright complexion in com- 
parison. He lives only on milk, and never goes down to 
the dining-room, and less frequently to the parlor. Our 
frisky little doctor, whom I call MZ. Fust what you need, 


180 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


asserts that Dr. Bouchereau has a very dangerous heart- 
trouble, and that the waters of Arvillard have kept him 
alive three years. ‘Just what you need, just what you 
need,’ is all one hears from this stuttering, droll, vain, 
talkative little man, who flies around our room in the 
morning. ‘ Doctor,I do not sleep: I think the treatment 
excites me.’ — ‘Just what you need.’ —‘ Doctor, I am 
sleepy all the time: I think it must be the waters.’ — 
‘Just what you need.’ 

“What he needs more than all is to end his round as 
quickly as possible, so that he may be at his consultation 
office at ten o’clock, in the little bandbox where people 
are packed from the lowest steps on the sidewalk to the 
staircase. So he does not loiter, but scribbles off a recipe 
without ceasing his capering and jumping about like a 
bather getting up a re-action. 

“Oh, that re-action! That is another occupation. I, 
who take neither baths nor shower-baths, have no re- 
action to attend to; but I sometimes remain a quarter 
of an hour under the linden-trees in the park, watching 
the coming and going of all these people who walk with 
long, regular steps, deep in thought, and pass each other 
without saying a word. My old gentleman in the inhal- 
ing-room, the one who keeps his eye on the spring, 
brings his usual punctuality and conscientiousness to this 
exercise. At the entrance to the walk he stops, closes 
his white umbrella, turns down his coat-collar, looks at 
his watch, and is on his way, holding his elbows in, and 
walking stiffly, — one, two; one, two, —as far as a great 
streak of pale light thrown across the path where a tree 
is missing. He goes no farther, raises his arms three 
times, as if he were practising dumb-bells, then returns 
at the same pace, brandishes dumb-bells again, and 


A WATERING-PLACE. ISI 


continues this fifteen times in succession. I imagine 
that the quarters of the nervous people at Charenton 
must look something like my path at eleven o’clock.” 


“ AuG. 6. 


“Then it is true that Numa is coming to see us. Oh, 
how glad I am! how glad I am! Your letter came by 
the mail which is distributed in the office of the hotel. 
It is a solemn moment, and is decisive in coloring the 
rest of the day. The office is full; and people range 
themselves in a half-circle around the stout Mme. Lau- 
geron, who looks very dignified in her blue flannel wrap- 
per, while in the authoritative, rather affected voice of 
an ancient maid of honor, she reads the addresses on the 
many-colored envelopes. Each person steps forward on 
being called; and I must tell you that each one has a 
certain pride in receiving a large mail. In this perpetual 
friction of vanity and folly, in what does one not have 
pride? ‘To think that I have reached the condition of 
feeling proud of my two hours’ inhaling! ‘M. le Prince 
d’Anhalt, M. Vasseur, M. Vasseur, Mlle. Le Quesnoy, 
Mlle. Le Quesnoy.’ What a disappointment! It is only 
my fashion-magazine. I look to see if there is nothing 
more for me, and run off with your dear letter, to a bench 
shut in by large hazel-nut trees at the end of the garden. 

“Tt is my bench in the corner where I isolate myself 
to dream, and weave my romances; for, astonishing to 
say, in order to invent and develop well, according to the 
rules of M. Baudouy, I do not need large horizons. 
When they are too large I am lost, — my ideas become 
scattered, and fly away. ‘The only annoyance near my 
bench is a swing where that little Bachellery passes half 
of her days being hurled into space by a young man with 


182 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


‘elasticity.’ I think he must have elasticity, to push her 
thus for hours. And she gives baby-like cries, and swift 
roulades. ‘Higher still!’ Heavens, how that girl irri- 
tates me! I wish the swing would send her into the 
clouds, and she would never come down again. I am 
so comfortable out of the way here on my bench when 
she is not near. I enjoyed reading your letter, and cried 
with delight at the postscript. 

“Oh, blessed be Chambéry, and its new lyceum, and 
the laying of the corner-stone, which brings the Minister 
of Public Instruction into our region! He will find this 
a very pleasant place in which to prepare his speech, 
either when walking in the ‘re-action’ path, —come 
now, good, a joke,—or under my hazel-nuts if Mlle. 
Bachellery does not frighten them away. I get along so 
well with my dear Numa, he is so lively and so gay. 
How we will talk about our Rosalie, and of the serious 
reason that prevents her from travelling just now! Ah, 
heavens, it is a secret! And mamma made me swear se 
solemnly! She is also glad to see dear Numa again. 
She suddenly lost all her timidity and modesty, and 
majestically entered the hotel-office to engage an apart- 
ment for her son-in-law the minister. You should have 
seen our landlady’s face when she heard the news. 

“¢What? Ladies, you are — you were ’— 

“We were, we are’ — 

“Her broad face became purple and flame-colored, 
like the palette of impressionists, as did those of M. Lau- 
geron and all the servants. Since our arrival we have 
asked in vain for an extra candle, and now there are five 
on the mantle-piece. Numa will be well served, I assure 
you, and have good rooms. ‘they will give him the first 
story, belonging to Prince d’Anhalt, who will leave in 


A WATERING-PLACE. 183 


three days. It seems that the waters of Arvillard are 
fatal to the princess, and the little doctor himself thinks 
that she should leave at once. That is what must be 
done ; for, if any thing should happen, the Alpes Dau- 
phinoises would never recover from it. 

“Tt is pitiful to see the haste attending the departure 
of these unfortunate persons, and how people hurry them 
away, through that magnetic hostility which would have 
the place one fills vacated when one is in the way. Poor 
Princess d’Anhalt, who was so /é/ed on her arrival! For 
a trifle they would send her away between two gendarmes 
to the boundaries of the Department. 

“Such is the hospitality of watering-places. Apropos, 
where is Bompard? You do not tell me whether he is 
to start also. Dangerous Bompard! If he comes, I am 
capable of flying away with him to some glacier. What 
developments we would find near the summit! I am 
laughing, Iam so happy. And I inhale, inhale ever so 
much, though rather embarrassed by the presence of 
Bouchereau, who has just entered and seated himself two 
seats from me. 

“What a hard look that man has! With his hands on 
the knob of his cane, and his chin resting on them, he 
speaks in a loud tone, looking straight ahead, without 
addressing any one. Ought I to apply to myself what 
he says about the imprudence of bathers, about their 
dresses of light batiste, and the folly of going out after 
dinner when the evenings are fatally cool? Wicked man ! 
One would believe that he knows that I am to collect 
this evening at the church of Arvillard for the work of 
the Propagation. Father Olivieri will speak in the pul- 
pit about his mission to Thibet, and of his captivity and 
martyrdom, and Mlle. Bacheliery will sing the Ave-Maria 


184 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


by Gounod. We shall have a lively time returning 
through all the little dark streets with lanterns, like a real 
retreat by torch-light. If it is a consultation that M. 
Bouchereau is giving me, I do not wish it, for it is too 
late. In the first place, sir, I have carte blanche from 
my little doctor, who is much more amiable than you, 
and who even permitted me to waltz around once in the 
salon to finish the evening. Oh! only once! And, when 
I dance a little too much, every one is after me. People 
do not know how strong I am, with my tall spindle figure, 
and that a Parisian lady is never ill from too much dan- 
cing. ‘Take care, do not fatigue yourself too much,’ 
says one; another brings me my shawl; and some one 
else closes the windows on my back for fear that I may 
take cold. But the most concerned is the young man 
who has so much ‘elasticity,’ because he thinks I have 
so very much more than his sister. That is easy to 
explain, poor girl! Between ourselves, I think that this 
young gentleman, despairing at Alice Bachellery’s cold- 
ness, has fallen back on me, and is paying me court. 
But alas! it is a waste of efforts: my heart is captivated, 
it belongs to Bompard. Well, no, it is not Bompard — 
as you suspect, it is not Bompard—who is the hero of 
my romance. It is—it is— Ah! dear me, my hour 
has gone. I will tell you another day, mademoiselle 
refréjon.” 


A WATERING-PLACE. 185 


CHAPTER XII. 
A WATERING-PLACE (continued). 


On the morning that the “Bather’s Journal” an- 
nounced that his Excellency the Minister of Public 
Instruction, with his affaché Bompard and their suite, 
had stopped at the Alpes Dauphinoises, the dismay in 
the hotels in the vicinity was great. The Laita had been 
keeping a Catholic archbishop from Geneva for two days 
to bring him out at the right moment, as well as a coun- 
sellor-general from the Isére, an associate-judge from 
Tahiti, and an architect from Boston —in short, a whole 
batch ; La Chevrette also expected a deputy and family 
from the Rhéne. But the deputy and associate-judge 
disappeared, swept away and lost in the wake of the 
brilliant light that followed Numa Roumestan every- 
where. People talked and thought of no one but him, 
and made every excuse to obtain admittance into the 
Alpes Dauphinoises, and to pass by the small parlor on 
the ground-floor, opening into the garden, where the min- 
ister ate his meals in the company of the ladies and his 
attaché. ‘They tried to see him play the game of bowls, 
so dear to the Southerner, with Father Olivieri of the 
Missions, a holy and heavily bearded man, who by liv- 
ing among the savages had learned their ways, and who 
uttered formidable cries when aiming, firing, and bran- 
dishing the balls above his head like a tomahawk. The 


minister’s handsome face and frank manners, and above 
13 


186 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


all his sympathy for the poor, won every heart. The 
day after his arrival, the two waiters who served on the 
first story told at the office that the minister intended to 
take them to Paris to be in his employ. As they were 
good servants, Mme. Laugeron resented it; but did not 
let his Excellency see it, as his stay was so great an 
honor to her hotel. The prefect and rector came from 
Grenoble to ceremoniously present their homage to Rou- 
mestan. The abbé of La Grande-Chartreuse, — in whose 
behalf he pleaded against the Prémontrés and their cor- 
dial, — sent him, with great ceremony, a case of extra- 
fine wines. Finally, the prefect of Chambéry came to 
receive his orders for the ceremony of laying the corner- 
stone of the new lyceum, which was an opportunity for 
a written address, and a revolution in the customs of the 
University. But the minister asked for a little respite: 
his labors in the session had fatigued him ; and he wished 
to recover his breath, and find repose with his relatives, 
and prepare at his leisure the speech for Chambéry, as it 
would have considerable weight. The prefect under- 
stood this, asking only to be notified forty-eight hours in 
advance, that he might be able to give the necessary 
éclat to the ceremonies. The stone had waited two 
months, and could wait even longer the pleasure of the 
illustrious orator. 

In reality, what kept Roumestan at Arviliard was neither 
the need of rest nor the leisure which might be required 
by so wonderful an improvisor, on whom time and reflec- 
tion had the effect of dampness on phosphorus. It was 
the presence of Alice Bachellery. After five months’ 
passionate flirtation, Numa had no farther advanced with 
his “little one” than on the day of their first rendezvous. 
He frequented her house, enjoyed the skilfully made soup 


A WATERING-PLACE. 187 


of M. Bachellery, the ditties of the former director of the 
Folies-Bordelaises, and recognized the slight favors by a 
shower of presents, bouquets, admission-cards to ministe- 
rial boxes, the s¢ances of the Institute and Chamber, and 
even by the conferring of the Academy prize to the song- 
writer ; but nothing helped on his suit. However, he was 
not one of those novices who fish at any hour, without 
first having tried the water and made sure of his bait. 
Only he had to deal with a most delicate and subtle fish, 
which played with his precautions, bit at the bait, some- 
times pretended to be caught, and, suddenly giving a pull, 
escaped, leaving his mouth parched with desire, and his 
heart lashed by the splashing of its supple, undulating, 
tempting form. There is nothing more enervating than 
this game ; but Numa could bring it to an end only by 
giving the little one what she asked for, — an engagement 
as first singer at the Opéra for five years, with a large salary, 
a prominent situation, and the whole signed and sealed, 
meaning something more than a mere shake of the hands 
and the “agreed” of Cardaillac. She did not believe in 
it more than in the “I assure you it is just the same as 
if you had it,” with which Roumestan for five months had 
tried to lure her. 

The latter found himself between two exigencies. 
“Ves,” said Cardaillac, “if you renew my lease.” Now 
it was burned and at an end, and his presence at the head 
of the principal opera-house would be a scandal and a 
reproach and a suspicious inheritance from the imperial 
administration. The press would surely protest against 
the player who had failed three times, and who could not 
wear his official cross, and against the cynical showman 
who shamelessly wasted the public funds. Weary at last 
of not being able to allow herself to be caught, Alice 
broke the line, and escaped, dragging the net with her. 


188 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


One day the minister, arriving at the Bachellerys’, found 
the house empty with the exception of the father, who, to 
console him, sang his last refrain : — 


“ Donne-moi d’quoi q’t’as, t’auras d’quoi qu’j’ai.” 


After this he waited patiently a month, then again visited 
the fertile song-writer, who wished to sing him his new 


song, — 
“ Quand le saucisson va, tout va.” 


and told him that the ladies, finding themselves charm- 
ingly situated at the watering-place, intended to prolong 
their stay. It was then that Roumestan bethought him 
that they were waiting for him to lay the corner-stone in 
the lyceum at Chambéry, —a promise made in the air, 
and which probably would have remained there if Cham- 
béry had not been next to Arvillard, where, by a providen- 
tial chance, Jarras, the physician and friend of the minister, 
had just sent Mlle. Le Quesnoy. 

They met in the garden of the hotel just after his arrival. 
She was very much surprised at seeing him, as if that very 
morning she had not read the boastful announcement in 
the “ Bather’s Journal,” and as if for a week the whole 
valley, through the thousand voices of its forests, fountains, 
and innumerable echoes, had not announced the coming 
of his Excellency. ; 

“Are you here?” 

And he, with his stiff, ministerial, and grand manner, 
answered, — 

“T have come to see my sister-in-law.” 

He was astonished, however, to find Mlle. Bachellery 
still at Arvillard. He thought she left long ago. 

“Dear me! I must take care of myself, since Cardail- 
lac pretends that my voice is in a bad condition.” 


A WATERING-PLACE. 189 


- 


Thereupon, with a little Parisian salute with the tips of 
her lashes, she went away singing a light voulade,—a 
pretty warble like that of a lark which one hears long after 
the bird is out of sight. Only from that day she changed 
her style. She was no longer the precocious child, gam- 
bolling around the hotel, roqueting M. Paul, swinging, 
and playing innocent games, amusing herself with the 
little ones only, and disarming the sternest mammas and 
most gloomy ecclesiastics by the innocence of her laugh- 
ter and her punctuality at service. Alice Bachellery ap- 
peared as the ava of the Bouffes, the pretty, free, and 
lively baker’s boy, surrounded by young fops who impro- 
vised fées, parties, and suppers, which the mother, who 
was always present, could not fully defend from evil 
interpretations. 

Every morning a basket-phaeton, with a white awning 
bordered with fringe, stood at the steps an hour until these 
ladies came down in light dresses; while a lively riding 
party, representing all the free life of the young men of 
the Alpes Dauphinoises and of the neighboring hotels, 
pawed around them. They were the associate judge, the 
American architect, and, in particular, the young man 
with “elasticity,” whom the diva no longer seemed to 
drive to despair with her innocent, childish ways. 

In a carriage piled up with cloaks for the return, and 
with a big basket of provisions on its box, they crossed 
the country at a full trot, ez rouse for the Chartreuse of 
St. Hugon. They spent three hours on the mountain 
among the pitfalls of the peaks, on a level with the tops 
of the dark pine-trees which bent over precipices, and 
torrents white with foam; or they went in the direction 
of Brame-farine, where they breakfasted on mountain- 


cheese, watered with a little wine, which made the Alps 
13 


190 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


and Mont Blanc, the wonderful horizon of ice, the blue 
crests high above, and the little lakes, which were clear 
patches at the foot of the rocks, like broken bits of sky, 
swim before their eyes. ‘They descended in a mountain 
sledge made of foliage, and without a back, and were 
obliged to hold on to the branches as they plunged 
headlong down the declivity. They were drawn by a 
mountaineer, who went straight on over the velvety pas- 
ture-land, the pebbly bed of dried torrents, and crossed 
with the same speed the tracts of rock, or the sharp 
turns of a brook, leaving them finally at the bottom, daz- 
zled, bruised, and suffocated, their whole bodies shaken 
and eyes whirling, and feeling as if they had experienced 
the most frightful earthquake. 

And the day did not close until the whole party were 
drenched on the road in a mountain-storm of lightning 
and hail, which frightened the horses, and made the 
landscape look like a tragic scene in the drama. It was 
a sensational return, with little Bachellery on the box, in 
a man’s overcoat, and with a chicken-wing in her hat, 
while she held the reins, and slapped them to keep her- 
self warm. When she at last alighted, she recounted the 
dangers of the excursion spiritedly and thrillingly, with 
eyes brilliant from the lively re-action of her youth, from 
a shiver of fear, and the cold rain-storm. 

She might, at least, have felt the need of a good sound 
sleep, such as a mountain excursion gives one: but no, 
in the room of those women a continuous revelry of 
laughter, singing, and popping of corks was kept up until 
morning ; eatables were carried up at unwonted hours, 
and tables were rolled up for daccara¢ over the minister’s 
head, his apartment being next beneath. 

Several times he complained to Mme. Laugeron, who 


A WATERING-PLACE. 191 


was divided between her desire to be agreeable to his 
Excellency, and the fear of displeasing such profitable 
patrons. Further, has any one the right to be very ex- 
- acting in these bathing hotels, that are always in commo- 
tion on account of departures and arrivals in the middle 
of the night, and on account of the noise of trunks being 
dragged along, of heavy boots, iron-tipped walking-sticks 
of mountain tourists, who are equipping themselves be- 
fore daybreak, and of the coughing fits of the invalids, 
their horrible, incessant, racking coughs, which have 
something of a death-rattle, sob, and the hoarse crow of 
a cock ? 

The heavy, sleepless July nights which Roumestan 
passed in feverish wakefulness, turning and tossing in his 
bed with troublesome thoughts, while the clear laughter 
of his neighbor, broken by brilliant passages and trills, 
rang out over his head, might have been spent in the 
preparation of his speech for Chambéry ; but he was too 
greatly agitated, too furious, from his efforts to restrain 
himself from going up stairs and kicking out the young 
man with elasticity, the American, and that infamous 
associate-judge who was a disgrace to the French magis- 
tracy in the colonies, and from seizing by her turtle 
throat, swollen with vow/ades, that wicked little wretch, 
and saying to her once for all, “‘ Will you soon quit mak- 
ing me suffer like this?”’ Then, to quiet himself, and 
drive away these visions, and others still more vivid and 
painful, he lighted his candle, called Bompard, his confi- 
dant and echo, who was sleeping in the next room, 
always ready on call, and talked to him about the little 
one. It was for this he brought him, taking him not 
without difficulty from his artificial incubator. Bompard 
consoled himself by talking about his business to Father 


¥g2 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Ulivieri, who was thoroughly familiar with the raising of 
ostriches, having lived in Cape Town a long while. The 
stories of the holy father, his travels and martyrdom, and 
the various ways in which he had been tortured in differ- 
ent countries, his robust buccaneer’s body having been 
burned, sawed, and run over, an illustration of the refine- 
ments of human cruelty, together with the fresh fan of 
silky, brilliant feathers he dreamed of, interested the im- 
aginative Bompard much more than the story of the 
little Bachellery ; but he was so well trained to his pro- 
fession of follower, that, even at that hour, Numa found 
him ready to wait upon him, and grow indignant when 
he himself did, giving to his noble face — beneath a 
nightcap which stood up in peaks —expressions of an- 
ger, irony, or grief, according as Numa spoke of the false 
eyelashes of the artful little one of sixteen, who ought to 
be twenty-four, or of the immorality of the mother taking 
part in the scandalous orgies. Finally, when Roumestan, 
having declaimed and gesticulated well, bared the weak- 
ness of his loving heart, and extinguished his candle, say- 
ing, “Come, let us try to sleep,’ Bompard profited by 
the darkness to say to him before going to bed, — 

“Tf I were in your place, I know what I should do.” 

“What?” 

“T should renew the engagement with Cardaillac.” 

Roanever |)? 

And he gave a violent plunge under the bed-clothes, to 
shut out the racket overhead. 

One afternoon, at the music-hour, the hour for co- 
quetry and talk in a watering-place, while all the bathers, 
crowded before the establishment as on the deck of a 
ship, were going and coming, walking round and round, 
or taking a seat on the chairs placed close together in 


A WATERING-PLACE. 193 


three rows, the minister, to avoid Mlle. Bachellery, whom 
he saw coming, in a dazzling blue and red toilet, escorted 
by her staff, hurried away into a deserted path. He was 
sitting alone on the corner of a bench, his thoughts 
influenced by the melancholy of the hour, and by the 
distant music, and was mechanically stirring with the end 
of his umbrella the red patches of light which the sun- 
set cast upon the path, when a shadow slowly passing 
between him and the sun made him raise his eyes. 

It was Bouchereau, the celebrated physician, looking 
very pale and bloated, and dragging his feet along. They 
knew each other, as all Parisians do in certain high circles 
of society. Bouchereau, who had not been out for sev- 
eral days, happened to feel in good humor. He seated 
himself, and they talked. 

“So you are ill, doctor?” 

“Very ill,” said the latter with his usual manner of a 
wild boar: “an hereditary malady, a hypertrophy of the 
heart. My mother and my sisters died of it. Only I 
shall not last so long as they, on account of my dreadful 
profession: I have only one or two years at most.” 

There was nothing but useless commonplace answers 
to give this grand savanzé, this infallible judge of maladies, 
who talked of his death with quiet assurance. Roumes- 
tan understood him, and remained silent, thinking that 
there were sorrows even more serious than his. Bou- 
chereau continued without looking at him, with that 
vague look and implacable succession of ideas which the 
habit of the desk and the class gives a professor, — 

“ Because we physicians have a certain manner, people 
think we feel nothing, and that in the sick person we care 
only for the malady, and never for the human and suffer- 
ing being. It is a great error. I have seen my teacher 


194 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Dupuytren, who, however, passed for a man hard as 
leather, weep bitterly in the presence of a poor little 
diphtheretic child, who said softly that he couldn’t bear 
to die; and the heart-rending appeals of maternal an- 
guish, the passionate hands clutching your arms, with the 
cry, ‘My child! Save my child!’ And the fathers who 
harden themselves to say to you in a very manly voice 
with big tears down their cheeks, ‘You will bring him 
through, won’t you, doctor?’ It is in vain that one 
inures one’s self: this despair pierces your heart ; and that 
is a fine thing for one when one’s heart is already out of 
order. Forty years of practice, and I am becoming more 
sensitive every day. It is my patients who have killed 
me. Iam dying on account of the sufferings of others.” 

“ But I thought that you no longer gave consultations, 
doctor,”’ said the minister much moved. 

“Oh, no! I do not. I shall never give them again to 
any one. If I were to see a man fall there before me, I 
should not even stoop down to him. You must know 
that my malady, contracted from those which others suffer, 
becomes at last revolting. I, too, wish to live. ‘There is 
nothing like life.” 

A brightness came over his deathly pallor ; and his nose, 
that was pinched and betokened ill-health, breathed in 
the light air which was impregnated with warm aromas, 
and vibrated with sounds and the cries of birds. He 
resumed with a touching sigh, — 

“T practise no longer, but I am still the physician: I 
preserve the fatal gift of diagnosing, that horrible second 
sight into the latent symptoms, the suffering that one 
wishes to be silent about, which, hardly observed in the 
person passing, in the being who walks, speaks, and acts 


A WATERING-PLACE. 195 


in full strength, shows me the dying person and the life- 
less body of to-morrow, as clearly as I see the syncope 
approaching in which I shall remain, and the last swoon 
from which nothing can awaken me.” 

“Tt is frightful,”” murmured Numa, who felt himself 
grow pale and cowardly before disease and death, like all 
Southerners who madly cling to life ; and he turned away 
from the dreaded savané, and no longer dared to face 
him, lest he should read the signs of approaching death 
in his face. 

“Ah! how the terrible diagnosis which all envy me 
saddens me, and spoils what little life remains! I am 
acquainted with a poor woman here whose son died ten 
or twelve years ago of laryngical phthisis. I saw him 
twice, and was the only one of them all to point out the 
gravity of the malady. To-day I again find the mother 
with her young daughter; and I confess that the pres- 
ence of these unfortunate women takes away the com- 
fort of my stay at the springs, and does me more harm 
than the treatment will do me good. They follow and 
wish to consult me, and I absolutely refuse. There is no 
need of examining that child to decide against her. It 
was sufficient to have seen her the other day voraciously 
eating a bowl of strawberries, to have looked at her when 
inhaling with her hand on her knees, a slender hand with 
arching nails, which turned away from the fingers as if 
about to part from them. She has her brother’s phthisis, 
and she will die before a year. But let others tell her. 
I have given enough of such knife-cuts that rebound 
against me. I will do so no more.” 

Roumestan had arisen very much alarmed. 

“Do you know the names of those ladies, doctor? ” 


196 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“No: they sent me their card, but I would not even 
look at it. I only know that they are at our hotel.” 

Then suddenly looking towards the end of the path, 
he cried, — 

“ Ah! my God, there they are! I must run!” 


A WATERING-PLACE. 197 


CHAPTER XIII. 
A WATERING-PLACE (continued). 


Jusr beyond, on the green circle where the last meas- 
ures of music were heard, there was a movement of 
umbrellas and gay toilets among the trees at the first 
sounds of the dinner-bell. 

The ladies were leaving an animated, busily talking 
group ; Hortense looking tall and slender in the light, in 
a toilet of muslin and valenciennes, with a hat trimmed 
with roses, and in her hand a bouquet of those same roses 
bought in the park. 

“With whom were you talking, Numa? He looked 
like Dr. Bouchereau,” she asked, standing before him, 
radiant and with so favorable a light of happy youth that 
the mother herself began to lose her fears, while a little 
of her daughter’s communicative gayety was reflected on 
her aged face. 

“Yes, it was Bouchereau who was telling me _ his 
troubles. He is very low, poor man.” And as Numa 
looked at her he became re-assured. “The man is 
crazy,” he said: “ it is not possible ; it is his own death 
which he is constantly thinking of, and whose symptoms 
he sees everywhere.” 

At that moment Bompard appeared, walking very 
quickly, and waving a newspaper. 

“What is it?’’ asked the minister. 

“Great news! The tambourinist has made a début.” 


198 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Hortense murmured, “ At last !”? and Numa was beam- 
ing. 

“Tt was a success, was it not?” 

“You think so? I have not read the article; but it 
fills three columns on the first page of ‘The Messenger.’” 

“One more that I have created,” said the minister, 
who had seated himself with his hands in his vest: “read 
it: to/us.”’ 

Mme. Le Quesnoy remarking that the dinner-bell had 
rung, Hortense quickly replied that it was only the first 
bell; and, leaning her cheek on her hand in a pretty 
pose of smiling attention, she listened. 


“Ts tt to the Minister of Fine Arts, or to the Director 
of the Opera, that the Parisian public owe the queer mys- 
tification of which it was the victim last evening ?” 


All trembled excepting Bompard, who, in his delight 
at being the bearer of good news, and lulled by the ring 
of his sentence, which he read without understanding it, 
looked at each in turn very much surprised at their as- 
tonishment. 

“Go on,” said Numa: “go on.” 


“ Certainly itis M. Roumestan whom we hold respon- 
sible. Itis he who has brought us this odd and rustic 
galoubet, this goat-herd’s reedpipe” — 


“There are some very wicked persons,” interrupted 
the young girl, turning pale under her roses. The reader 
continued, his eyes wide open at the enormities he saw 
coming. 

— “by which our Academy has been made to resemble 
the evening of the return from the fair at St. Cloud; 
and truly it needed a famous galoubet to believe that 
Paris” — 


A WATERING-PLACE. 199 


The minister tore the paper from his hands. 

“ You are not going to read us that nonsense to the 
end, I hope. It is quite enough to have brought it to us.” 

He ran over the article with the quick look of a public 
man accustomed to the invectives of the press. “4 pro- 
vincial minister, a fine player of entrechats. Valmajour’s 
Roumestan! hiss the minister, and smash the tambour- 
ine.’ He had enough of it, and hid the wicked sheet in 
the depths of his pocket, then rose, giving vent to the 
anger which swelled his face, and saying, as he took 
Mme. Le Quesnoy’s arm, “Come to dinner, mamma: 
this will teach me not to trouble myself about a pack of 


worthless people.” * 
The four walked side by side, Hortense with her eyes 
on the ground in consternation. ‘It refers to an artist 


of great talent,” she said, trying to steady the rather veiled 
timbre of her voice: ‘you must not make him respon- 
sible for the injustice of the public, and the irony of the 
papers.” 

Roumestan stopped. “Talent, talent, 4é, oz7, I do not 
deny; but “oo exotic;” and, raising his umbrella, he 
said, ‘“ Let us be careful about the South, little sister, let 
us be careful about the South. Do not let us abuse it: 
Paris would grow tired of it.” 

He resumed his way with measured steps, quiet and 
cold as an inhabitant of Copenhagen ; and the silence 
was disturbed only by the crunching of gravel under his 
steps, which, in certain circumstances, seems to represent 
anger, or a dream that is being crushed under foot. 
When they reached the hotel, from which through the 
ten windows of its vast dining-room came the clatter of 
spoons and plates in the hands of the hungry guests, 
Hortense stopped, and, raising her head, said, — 


200 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Then you intend to abandon that poor boy?” 

“What can be done? There is no use of trying longer, 
as Paris is not in his favor.” 

With an indignant, almost scornful 100k, she retorted, 

“What you say is frightful. Well, I am prouder than 
you, and faithful to my enthusiasms.” 

Saying which, she went up the hotel steps with two 
bounds. 

“ Hortense, the second bell has rung.” 

“Yes, yes, I know; I am coming right down;” and 
she ran up to her room, and locked herself in, that she 
might not be disturbed. From her open desk, one of 
those dainty trifles by means of which a Parisian lady 
invests even a hotel-room with her personality, she took 
a photograph which she had taken in the Arles fichu and 
ribbons, and wrote a line at the bottom of it, to which 
she attached her signature. While she was adding the 
address a clock in a church at Arvillard, in the violet 
shadow of the valley, struck as if to give solemnity to her 
act. ; 

Six o’clock. 

A mist arose from the torrent, floating away in snowy 
flakes. The amphitheatre of forests and mountains, and 
the luminous silver rays of the glacier in the rosy glow 
of evening, were noted by her, with the slightest details of 
that silent, restful moment, as one marks an especial date 
on the calendar, or underlines in a book the passage that 
moved one most. 

Thinking aloud, she said, — 

“Tt is my life, my whole life, that I am pledging this 
moment.” And she took for her witnesses the solemn 
evening hour, the majesty of nature, and the impressive 
air of meditation of every thing around her. 


A WATERING-PLACE. 201 


It was her whole life that she pledged. Poor child, if 
she had known how brief it was ! 

A few days later the Le Quesnoy ladies left the hotel, 
the treatment of Hortense being ended. Her mother, 
although re-assured by her child’s more healthful look, 
and what the little doctor said to her about the miracle 
performed by the nymph of the springs, was in haste tc 
end her stay, whose slightest details recalled her forme: 
martyrdom. 

“What will you do, Numa?” 

Oh! he intended to remain a week or two longer tc 
continue a little more treatment, and profit by the quiet 
their departure would give him to write his famous speech. 
It would make a great stir, and they would hear of it in © 
Paris. But Le Quesnoy would not be pleased. 

When Hortense was ready to depart, happy as she felt 
at returning home to see again the dear ones whom dis- 
tance rendered dearer still, for she had imagination even 
in her heart, she felt sad at leaving this beautiful country, 
and the guests at the hotel, the friends of three weeks, 
to whom she did not know she was so much attached. 
Ah, loving natures ! how you yield yourself to others, how 
every thing takes possession of you, and what grief it 
causes you to break the invisible, sensitive ties! They 
had been very kind and attentive to her; and at the last 
hour many kind faces pressed around the carriage, and 
held out their hands to her. Young girls kissed her, 
sighing, “Oh, it will be so dull without you!” They 
promised to write to each other, and exchanged souvenirs 
and fragrant boxes, and pearl paper-cutters with the in- 
scription “ Arvillard, 1876,” on a reflection of the lakes 
in blue. And, while M. Laugeron slipped into her bag 


a flask of superfine Chartreuse, she looked up, and saw 
14 


202 ' NMUMA ROUMESTAN. 


at the window of her room the woman who waited upon 
her, a native of the mountains, wiping her eyes with a 
large dingy handkerchief; and a hollow voice whispered 
in her ear, “ Elasticity, mademoiselle ; always have elas- 
ticity,” — her friend the consumptive, who, having climbed 
the axletree, was sending her a farewell look from two 
hollow, burning eyes that sparkled with energy and will, 
and also a little emotion. “Oh, the kind people, the 
kind people!” thought Hortense, not daring to speak 
for fear of weeping. 

“‘ Farewell, farewell all!” 

The minister, who accompanied the ladies to the 
station, seated himself opposite them. ‘The whip snaps, 
and the bells jingle, when suddenly Hortense cries, “ My 
sun-umbrella!’’ She had it onlya moment ago. Twenty 
persons spring forward. “The umbrella, the umbrella!” _ 
Was it in the chamber? No, nor in the salon. Doors 
slam, and the hotel was in a commotion from top to 
bottom. 

“Do not look for it. I know where it is;” and the 
young girl, who at all times was sprightly, jumped from 
the carriage, and ran into the garden to the nut-trees, 
where that very morning she had added a few more 
chapters to the romance that was under way in her little 
imaginative head. The umbrella was there across the 
bench, something reminding one of herself lying in her 
favorite place. What delightful hours she had passed in 
this bright, leafy corner, and what confidences had been 
carried away by the bees and butterflies! No doubt she 
would never return there again; and this thought made 
her heart heavy, and made her tarry. Even the slow, 
grating noise of the swing she now thought charming. 

“ Keep still: you bother me.” 


A WATERING-PLACE. — 203 


It was the voice of Mlle. Bachellery, who, furious at 
being neglected on account of this departure, and believ- 
ing herself alone with her mother, was speaking to her in 
her habitual language. Hortense thought of the filial, 
coaxing ways that had so often wearied her, and laughed 
to herself as she returned to the carriage, when, at the 
turning of a path, she found herself face to face with 
Bouchereau. She moved aside, but he held her by the 
arm. 

“So you are to leave us, my child?” 

“es, sir.” 

She hardly knew what to answer, feeling confused at 
meeting him, and at his speaking to her for the first time. 
Then he took both her hands in his, and held her thus 
before him with arms extended, and looked at her search- 
ingly with his sharp eyes under their white, bushy eye- 
brows. 

Then his lips and arms trembled, and a deep purple 
flush succeeded the pallor of his face. 

“There, farewell: I wish you a pleasant journey.” 
And without another word he drew her to his bosom 
with the tenderness of a grandfather, and ran away with 
both hands pressed to his heart, that was throbbing 
wildly. 


204 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER | xive 
THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. 


“Non, non, je me fais hironde-e-elle, 
Et je m’envo-o-le a tire d’ai-ai-le.” 


THE little Bachellery, dressed in a fancy cloak with a 
blue-silk hood to match a little cap around which was 
wound a large gauze veil, was standing before her mirror, 
buttoning her last glove, and singing this refrain in a 
shrill voice which that morning sounded clear and pleas- 
ant. Prepared for an excursion, her gay little person 
had a pleasant odor of a fresh toilet and a new cos- 
tume in the strictest taste, and which formed a contrast 
to the untidiness of her room, where the remnants of a 
supper were strewn over the table with counters, cards, 
and candles, close to the disordered bed, and a large 
bathing-tub full of the dazzling milk whey of Arvillard, 
which was a sovereign remedy for quieting the nerves, 
and rendering the skin of bathers like satin. Below, the 
basket-phaeton was waiting for her, and an escort of 
young men were moving to and fro before the steps. 

As she was finishing her toilet, a knock was heard at 
the door. As she called out, “Come in,” Roumestan 
entered, and with great emotion handed her a large en- 
velope. 

“Here it is, mademoiselle. Oh! read it, read it!” 

It was a five-years’ engagement at the Opéra, with the 
desired salary, first position, and all. And when she had 


THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. 205 


deciphered it, article by article, coldly and deliberately, 
even to Cardaillac’s clumsy signature, then, and only 
then, did she move a step towards the minister, and rais- 
ing her veil, which was drawn down as a protection from 
the dust on the journey, she put up her rosy face to him. 

“You are good. I love you.” 

It needed no more to make the public man forget all 
the annoyance the engagement would cause him. He 
restrained himself, however, and stood up straight, frown- 
ing, and cold as a rock. 

“Now I have kept my word, I will retire. I do not 
wish to disturb your party.” 

“My party? Ah! yes, it is true. We are going te 
Chateau-Bayard.” And, throwing both arms around his 
neck, she said coaxingly, “ You will come with us? Oh! 
yes, yes!” 

Her wide pencilled eyebrows grazed his face ; and she 
even bit his statuesque chin, though not very hard, with 
the edge of her baby teeth. 

“With those young men? Why, it is impossible. You 
can’t mean it.” 

“T don’t care for those young men. I will send them 
away. Mamma, go and tell them —oh! they are used 
to it. Do you hear, mamma?” 

“J am going,” said Mme. Bachellery, who was to be 
seen in the next room with her foot on a chair, trying to 
get very narrow cloth boots over her red stockings. She 
made the minister her fine bow of the Folies-Bordelaises, 
and hastened down to send the gentlemen away. 

“Keep a horse for Bompard. He will come with us,” 
called out the little one. And Numa, touched by this 
attention, tasted the delicious joy of having this pretty 
girl at a Pea and listening to all these dashing young 


206 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


men as they walked away with heads hung down, though 
the hoofs of their horses had often trodden on his heart 
as they pranced around little Bachellery. She gave a 
long, lingering kiss, with a smile that promised every 
thing ; then she disengaged herself. 

“Go and dress quickly,” she said. ‘I long to be off.” 

There was a stir of curiosity in the hotel, and a meve- 
ment behind the blinds, when it was known that the min- 
ister was of the party for Chateau-Bayard, when his broad 
white vest and his beaming Roman face, shaded by his 
Panama, were seen in the basket-phaeton, opposite the 
singer. After all, as Father Olivieri said, who had become 
used to a good deal since his travels, what harm was 
there in it? Would not the mother accompany them? 
and would not a visit to the Chateau-Bayard, an historical 
building, be included in the duties of a minister? Let 
us not be so intolerant towards men who give their lives 
in the defence of good doctrines and our holy religion. 

“Bompard does not come: what is he doing?” mur- 
mured Roumestan, who was impatient at waiting there 
before the hotel, under the fire of scrutinizing eyes, in 
spite of the canopy of the carriage. At a window on the 
first story something extraordinary, white, round, and of 
foreign appearance, was seen; and it cried, with the 
well-known accent of the ancient chief of the Tcher- 
kesses, “Go on ahead. I will join you.” 

As if they waited only for this signal, the two mules, 
with low withers but a firm step, crossed the park with 
three bounds, and passed the bathing establishment. 

“Look out! Look out!” 

The frightened bathers and the chair-bearers stood 
quickly aside, and the waiting-women, with the large 
pockets of their aprons full of change and colored 


THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. 207 


tickets, appeared at the entrance of the galleries; the 
shampooers, naked as Bedouins under their woollen cov- 
erings, showed themselves to the waist on the staircase 
of the vapor bath-room ; the blue curtains in the inhala- 
tion rooms were pulled up, for people wished to see the 
minister and the singer pass; but they are already far 
away, driving at full speed down the steep labyrinth of 
the dark little streets of Arvillard, over the sharp pebbles, 
veined with sulphur and fire, over which the carriage 
bounded, sending out sparks, and shaking the low 
houses, which are full of lepers, and bringing to the win- 
dows filled with notices, and to the threshold of stores 
where are walking-sticks, parasols, mountain-passes, cal- 
careous stones, minerals, crystals, and other bait for 
bathers, heads that bow and foreheads that are uncov- 
ered at sight of the minister. 

Even those afflicted with goitre recognize him, and 
salute the Grand Master of the University of France with 
their meaningless hoarse laugh; while the ladies, feeling 
very proud, hold themselves erect and dignified opposite 
him, appreciating the honor paid them. They are not 
at their ease until out of that part of the country, on the 
beautiful road to Pontcharra, where the mules stop to 
take breath at the foot of the tower of Treuil, which 
Bompard appointed for the rendezvous. 

The moments go by, and no Bompard. They knew 
he was a good rider, he so often boasted of it. They 
are astonished and annoyed, — Numa, in particular, who 
is impatient to be far away on that smooth white road, 
which appears endless, in order to get on in the journey 
which lies before him like a life full of hope and adven- 
ture. Finally, from a whirlwind of dust in which a terri- 
fied voice pants, “Ho! la; ho! la,” the head of Bom- 


208 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


pard is put forth, decked with one of those cork caps 
covered with white linen, with the vague outline of a 
diver’s suit, in use in the Indo-English army, and which 
the Southerner has imported with the intention of making 
his journey important and dramatic, giving the hatter 
to believe that he was going to Bombay or Calcutta. 

“Come on, then, laggard.” 

Bompard raised his head with a tragic air. Evidently 
much had occurred on his departure, and the Tcherkesse 
must have given the people of the hotel a sad idea of his 
powers of equilibrium ; for broad streaks of dust soiled 
his sleeves and back. ‘Wretched horse,” 
bowing to the ladies, while the basket-wagon shook, 
“wretched horse, but I put him at a trot.” 

So much of a trot that now the strange beast would 
not go on, but kept stamping and turning round like a 
sick cat, in spite of the efforts of his rider. The car- 
riage was already far away. “Are you coming, Bom- 
pard?”’ 

“Go on, I will join you,” he shouted again, in his 
deepest and most beautiful JAZarseaise tones; then he 
made a despairing gesture, and was seen flying off 
towards Arvillard in a succession of furious kicks. They 
all said, “he must have forgotten something,” and 
thought no more about him. 

The road, which was wide and belonged to France, 
wound round the heights. Along it at intervals were 
walnut-trees, on the left forests of chestnut and pine, 
and in terraces on the right, of large declivities, sloping 
off as far as eye could see, to where in the background 
villages were clustered in the valleys, vineyards, fields of 
wheat and maize, mulberry and almond trees, and a daz- 
zling carpet of broom, whose grain opened by the heat 


he said, 


THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. 209 


made a continual crackling, as if the sun itself were 
bursting forth into fire. One might believe this, on 
account of the heavy weather, and burning atmosphere, 
which did not seem to be caused by the sun, which was 
almost invisible behind a veil of gauze. The scorching 
vapors from the earth made the sight of the Glayzin seem 
deliciously cool, with its snow-capped summit, which 
apparently one might touch with his umbrella. 
Roumestan could recall no landscape comparable to 
this, not even in his dear Provence. He could not 
imagine greater enjoyment than his. He forgot care, 
and felt no remorse. His faithful, trusting wife, the hope 
of a child, the prediction of Bouchereau about poor 
Hortense, and the disastrous effect which would be pro- 
duced by the appearance of the decree of Cardaillac in 
“L’Officiel,” were forgotten by him. His whole destin, 
depended on this beautiful girl, with a fair rosy face 
beneath her blue veil, and whose eyes reflected his own. 


“Maintenant je me sens aimée, 
Fuyons tous deux sous la ramée,”— 


she sang, gently pressing his hands. 

While they rode along, as if borne on the wind, the 
landscape bordering the winding road grew rapidly 
broader, now showing a wide plain in a half-circle, with 
lakes and villages, then mountains that looked dark or 
light according to their distance. They were approaching 
Savoy. “How beautiful! how grand!” said the singer ; 
and Numa answered softly, “ How I love you!” 

At the last halt Bompard joined them again, this time 
on foot, and leading his horse by the bridle, and looking 
very pitiable. ‘This is an astonishing beast,”’ he at once 
said ; and, when the ladies asked if he had fallen, he 
answered, “No: my old wound has re-opened.” 


210 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


‘Was he wounded? Where? When?” He had never 
spoken of it, but from Bompard one must expect surprises. 
They made him enter the carriage, his very quiet horse 
being fastened behind, and docilely trotting after them. 
They proceeded to Chateau-Bayard, whose two poorly- 
restored sentry-box towers are seen on a plateau. 

A servant came to meet them,—a shrewd mountain 
woman sent by an old priest who formerly preached in 
the neighboring parishes, and lived at Chateau-Bayard, 
to which he had orders to admit tourists. When visitors 
are announced, the priest retires in a dignified manner to 
his room unless the visit is from distinguished persons: 
but the minister, being on a secret party of pleasure, took 
care not to give his title; and it was to ordinary visitors 
that the servant, who used phrases learned by heart and 
the sing-song tone of such people, showed what was left 
of the ancient mansion of the chevalier “without fear ot 
reproach,” while the coachman prepared breakfast in an 
arbor in the little garden. 

“ Here is the ancient chapel where the good chevalier 
morning and evening— _I beg you, ladies and gentlemen, 
to look at the thickness of the walls.” They looked at 
nothing at all. It was growing dark; and they brushed 
against the plastering, which was only partly lighted by a 
sliding loophole in a loft among the beams near the ceil- 
ing. Numa, with the little one’s arm in his own, rather 
made sport of the Chevalier Bayard and “his respectable 
mother, Dame Helen of Germany.” ‘This odor of old 
things bored them. Even when Mme. Bachellery, in 
order to try the echo in the arches of the kitchen, sang 
her husband’s last song in a rollicking manner, — 


“T get this from papa, I get this from mamma,” — 


no one was shocked: on the contrary, it seemed tame. 


THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. 21 


But when out-of-doors, where breakfast was served on 
a massive stone table, and when the first pangs of hunger 
were appeased, the calm splendor of the horizon around 
them, with the valley of the Graisivaudan, the Bauges, 
and the frowning towers of the Grande-Chartreuse, and 
the contrast of this bold, wild nature to the small terraced 
orchard where the solitary old man lived among his tulip- 
trees and bees with his thoughts on God, gave them a 
grave, gentle feeling which resembled serious reflection. 
At dessert the minister, opening the guide-book to refresh 
his memory, spoke of Bayard, of “his poor mother who 
tenderly wept’ on the day when the child, leaving for 
Chambéry to be a page to the Duke of Savoy, made his 
little jackass prance before the northern gate in the very 
place where fell the shadow of the big tower that was 
majestic and frail, like the phantom of an old vanished 
castle. Numa, becoming inspired, read to them the 
beautiful words of Mme. Helen to her son at the moment 
of his departure, — 

“Pierre, my dear, I recommend, that, above every 
thing, you should love, fear, and serve God, and, if possi- 
ble, in no way offend him.” 

Then, standing on the terrace, and giving a sweep of 
his arm extensive enough to reach Chambéry, he began, 
“This should be said to children, and is what every parent 
and every teacher” — They he stopped, and slapped 
his forehead. 

“My speech! This will do for my speech. I have it, 
superb! The Chateau-Bayard, a local legend. I have 
been seeking it for a fortnight, and here it is.” 

“It is providential,” cried Mme. Bachellery, full of 
admiration ; thinking, however, that the breakfast was 
ending rather soberly. ‘What a man! what a man!” 


212 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


The little one also seemed very much excited, but the 
impressionable Roumestan did not heed it. The spirit 
of an orator stirred within him; and, full of ideas, he 


continued, “It would be fine,”—and he gave a look 
around him, — “it would be fine to date it from Chateau- 
Bayard.” 


“Tf monsieur /’avocat would like a place to write in’? — 

“Oh! I wish to put down only a few notes. Will you 
excuse me, ladies, while coffee is being served? I will 
return soon. I wish to date it on the spot.” 

The servant-maid took him to a small and very ancient 
room on the ground-floor, on whose ceiling, which was 
rounded like a dome, were traces of gilding, and which 
they pretended was the oratory of Bayard. The spacious 
room adjoining, with a large canopied bed and Persian 
curtains, is shown as his sleeping-room. It was pleasant 
to write between these thick walls, which the heavy atmos- 
phere could not penetrate, and near the open sliding 
window, through which the light fell across his page, and 
the fragrance of the little orchard was wafted. In the 
beginning the orator’s pen was not rapid enough for his 
enthusiastic thought. Bowing his head, drunk with hid- 
den fire, he let the well-known but eloquent phrases of a 
Southern lawyer flow forth, with brilliant flourishes here 
and there, as in his free handwriting. Suddenly he stopped, 
his brain being empty of words and overcome with the 
fatigue of the journey and the odors of breakfast. Then 
he walked from the oratory to the sleeping-room, speaking 
aloud, and becoming excited, and listening to his footsteps 
in the echoing room, which sounded like those of some 
illustrious ghost returning, then seated himself once more, 
but could not write a line. Every thing whirled around 
him,—the whitewashed walls, and the ray of light that 


THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. 213 


made him drowsy. He heard a sound of plates and 
laughter in the garden, far, very far away ; and finally fell 
into a deep slumber, with his nose on his unfinished 
writing. 

A heavy thunder-clap brought him to his feet. How 
long had he been there? Feeling somewhat confused, 
he went out into the garden, now still and deserted. 
The air was heavy with the fragrance of tulips. Under 
the empty arbor, wasps were slowly flitting around the 
champagne glasses, and the sugar in the cups, which the 
servant was noiselessly removing, being overcome by the 
nervous fear of an animal at the approach of a storm, 
and crossing herself at every flash of lightning. She 
told Numa, that, as the young lady had a severe headache 
after breakfast, she took her into Bayard’s sleeping-room 
to get a nap, closing the door “very softly,” as she was 
bidden, in order not to disturb “the gentleman,” who 
was working. The other two, the stout lady and the 
person in the white hat, had gone down to the valley, and 
they would surely get wet, for there was going to be a— 
“Look !” 

In the direction that she pointed out on the jagged 
crest of the Bauges, where the stony summits of the 
Grande-Chartreuse were enveloped in lightning like that 
of a mysterious Sinai, the heavens were darkened by a 
very large inky streak, that grew larger as one gazed, and 
beneath which the whole valley, the rustling green trees, 
the golden wheat, the roads indicated by light lines of 
floating dust, and the silvery sheet of the Isére, had an 
extraordinary luminous prominence, in an oblique stream 
of white, reflected light, as the sombre, threatening, 
muttering cloud advanced. In the distance, Roumestan 
perceived Bompard’s linen cap, shining like a lens in a 


light-house. 


214 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


He returned to the house, but could not set himself 
to work. This time sleep did not paralyze his pen: on 
the contrary, he felt strangely excited by the presence of 
Alice Bachellery in the next room. But was she still 
there? He opened the door, and dared not close it 
again, for fear of disturbing the singer, who looked so 
pretty in her sleep. She had thrown herself on the bed: 
her dress was dishevelled, and her hair was crumpled, 
and snowy outlines were disclosed here and there where 
her dress was unfastened. 

“Come, come, Numa, remember. The room of Bay- 
ard! Devil take it!” 

He positively took himself by the collar, like a male- 
factor, drew himself away, and seated himself at his 
table, with his head in his hands, covering his eyes and 
ears, the better to consider the last phrase, which he 
repeated in a low voice, “ And, gentlemen, these last in- 
junctions of the noble mother of Bayard, that have come 
down to us in the sweet tongue of the middle ages, we 
wish that the University of France” — 

He was enervated by the storm, that was as heavy and 
benumbing as the shade of certain tropical trees, and 
intoxicated by the exquisite odor of the bitter flowers of 
the tulip-trees, and that armful of fair hair spread over 
the pillow in the next room. Unhappy minister! In 
vain he clung to his speech, and. invoked the chevalier 
“without fear and without reproach,” the public instruc- 
tion, sacred worship, and the rector of Chambéry. Noth- 
ing served him. He must enter Bayard’s chamber ; and 
this time went so near the sleeper that he heard her faint 
breath, while his hand touched the bed-curtains that 
framed the young girl in her alluring sleep. With her rosy 
flesh-tints that were pearly blue in the shadows, she was 
like a sanguine Fragonard bit of mischief. 


THE SPEECH AT CHAMBERY. 215 


Even there, on the brink of his temptation, the minis- 
ter still struggled, and, with a mechanical murmuring of 
his lips was muttering the last injunctions which the Uni- 
versity of France —when a sudden rolling of thunder, 
each clap coming nearer, awoke the singer with a start. 

“ Oh, how frightened I am! stay, is it you?” 

She gave him a smile of recognition, her eyes looking 
as clear as those of an awakening child, and feeling no 
embarrassment at the disorder of her dress, and her eyes 
rested longingly on his. The room was suddenly buried 
in the darkness of night by the wind, which closed the 
tall Persian blinds, one after the other. Doors slammed, 
a key fell, and a whirlwind of leaves and flowers rolled 
over the gravel to the threshold, where the hurricane 
plaintively moaned. 

“What a storm!” she said softly, taking his burning 
hand, and drawing him almost under the curtains. 

“ And, gentlemen, these last injunctions of the mother 
of Bayard, handed down to us in the sweet tongue of 
the middle ages” — 

The Grand Master of the University spoke these words 
this time at Chambéry, in sight of the old castle of 
the Dukes of Savoy, and that wonderful amphitheatre 
of green hills and snowy mountains, of which Chateau- 
briand dreamed before the Taygéte. He was surrounded 
by embroidered coats, ermine, silk epaulets, and palm- 
leaves, and overlooked a vast crowd, who were stirred by 
the force of his spirited words, and the gesture of his 
strong hand, which still held the little ivory-handled 
trowel that had just cemented the first stone of the 
lyceum. 

“Tt is our wish that every member of the University of 


216 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


France address the same to his children: ‘ Pierre, my 
dear, I recommend you before all things’”.— And, while 
he quoted these touching words, his hand, voice, and 
broad cheeks trembled with emotion at the memory of 
that large, fragrant room, where, in the excitement of a 
memorable storm, the Chambéry speech had been com- 
posed. 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 217 


CHAPTER XV. 
ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 


Ir is ten o’clock in the morning. The ante-chamber 
of the Minister of Public Instruction, a long, badly-lighted 
lobby with gloomy hangings and oaken wainscoating, 
is filled with a crowd of solicitors, who are seated or walk- 
ing about, and becoming more numerous every moment. 
Each new-comer gives his card to the solemn usher, who 
takes it, inspects it, and ceremoniously places it without 
a word by his side on the blotting-paper on the little table 
where he writes in the dim light from the window, that 
is glittering with a fine October rain. One of the late 
arrivals has, however, the honor of overcoming this august 
impassiveness. He was a stout man, tanned, sunburnt, 
and covered with tar, with two little silver anchors for 
earrings, and the hoarse voice of a seal as it rattles in the 
light morning mist of provincial ports. 

“Say that it is Cabantous the pilot. He knows what 
I wish. He is expecting me.” 

“You are not the only one,” replied the usher, smiling 
discreetly at his pleasantry. 

Cabantous does not understand the /ivesse; but he 
laughs confidingly, with his mouth stretched to the an- 
chors in his ears. With a rolling motion of his shoulders 
he makes his way through the crowd, which moves aside * 
from his wet umbrella, and seats himself on a bench near 


another patient soul, who is almost as tanned as himself. 
15 


218 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Té, ve. Itis Cabantous. é/ how do you do?” 

The pilot begs pardon: he does not remember him. 

“Valmajour, you must know; a name well known at 
the amphitheatre in Provence.” 

“Great God, it is true! #é, my man, you may be 
certain that Paris has changed you.” 

The tambourinist was now a gentleman, with very long 
black hair brushed back of his ears in artist fashion, 
which, with his brown complexion and blue-black mus- 
tache which he continually twisted, made him resemble a 
gypsy in the Gingerbread Fair. Added to this, he held 
his head high like aa village cock, with the vanity of a 
handsome fellow and musician, in which was betrayed 
his Southern exaggeration underneath his quiet manner 
and reticence. His failure in opera did not dishearten 
him. Like all actors in similar cases, he attributed it to 
the cabal. This word to his sister and himself had a 
barbarous and extraordinary meaning, being spelled like 
a Sanscrit word (the £4adda/e, a mysterious animal, half 
rattlesnake, and half a horse of the Apocalypse). He 
tells Cabantous, that in a few days he will make his début 
at a grand café concert on the Boulevard, —a skating 
affair in which he will figure in tableaux at two hundred 
francs an evening. 

“Two hundred francs an evening!” The pilot rolls 
up his eyes. 

“And my diographille besides, which will be cried out 
in the streets, and my portrait, life-size, on all the walls 
of Paris. It will have an antique troubadour’s costume, 
like the one I shall wear in the evening when I play the 
tambourine.” 

The costume is what pleases him. What a pity that 
he could not wear his cap with a curved rim, and his 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 219 


pointed shoes, to show the minister the splendid con- 
tract that had been signed without his aid, and this time 
on good paper! Cabantous looked at the document 
under seal, which was blackened on both sides, and 
sighed, — 

“You are very fortunate. Here am I, who have been 
expecting my medal for more than a year. Numa told 
me to send my papers, and I did so. Then I heard no 
more of the medal, nor papers, nor any thing else. I 
wrote to the navy, and they did not recognize me there. 
I wrote to the minister, and he didn’t answer me. And 
the most provoking part of it is, that now, when I have 
a discussion with the sea-captains about pilotage, not 
having my papers, the judges won’t listen to my rights. 
When I saw this, I steered my bark to shore, and thought 
to myself, ‘I'll go and see Numa.’”’ 

The unhappy pilot almost wept. Valmajour consoled 
and re-assured him, and promised to speak to the minis- 
ter for him, and said this with a confident tone, with his 
finger on his mustache, like a man to whom one can 
refuse nothing. But this haughty attitude was not pecu- 
liar to him alone. All the men who were waiting for a 
hearing — old priests in their visiting cloaks, and with 
sanctimonious ways, methodical professors with authori- 
tative manners, swell painters with head-coverings in 
Russian style, and stout sculptors with fingers like a 
spatula — had this same triumphant bearing. ‘They were 
particular friends of the minister, and were sure of their 
success, and on arriving said to the usher, — 

“ He is expecting me.” 

All had the conviction, that if Roumestan only knew 
they were there! This is what gave the ante-chamber 
of the Public Instruction its individual character, where 


220 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


there was no evidence of the feverish pallor and trem- 
bling anxiety usually found in ministerial waiting-rooms. 

“Who is with him now?” Valmajour asks, as he ap- 
proaches the little table. 

“The Director of the Opéra.” 

“ Cardaillac? Oh, I know! it is about my business.” 

After the tambourinist’s failure at the theatre, Cardail- 
lac refused to give him another hearing. Valmajour 
wished to plead; but the minister, who dreads lawyers 
and small papers, begged the musician to withdraw his 
engagement, guaranteeing him a strong indemnity. It 
was this indemnity that they were no doubt discussing 
at this moment, and with considerable animation; for 
Numa’s clarion-like voice rang through the office-door, 
which finally was opened with a slam, — 

“He is your profégé, not mine.” 

With these words the stout Cardaillac comes out, 
crosses the ante-chamber at a furious stride, running into 
the usher, who is coming forward between two rows of 
men who are presenting their recommendations. 3 

“ You need only give my name.” 

“Simply let him know that I am here.” 

“Tell him it is Cabantous.” 

The man listens to no one, but walks gravely on bear- 
ing several visiting-cards in his hand ; and the door which 
he leaves open behind him gives a view of the ministerial 
office filled with the light from its three windows that 
look upon the garden, and of a panel covered by the 
zrmine-lined mantle of M. de Fontanes in a full-length 
portrait. 

With a look of astonishment on his cadaverous face, 
the usher returns, and calls out, — 

“M. Valmajour.” 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 221 


The musician, on his part, is not astonished at thus 
passing in before all the others. 

Since morning his portrait has been hanging on the 
walls in Paris. He is an important person now; and 
the minister will not keep him anxiously waiting as in 
the draughts of a station. With a foppish, smiling look 
he plants himself in the middie of the sumptuous office, 
where secretaries are about to take down boxes and 
drawers in their hurried search. Roumestan, in a furious 
mood, thunders and scolds with his hands in his pockets. 

“But those papers, devil take it! those papers of the 
pilot, are they lost? Really, gentlemen, there is such 
disorder here that ”” — 

Then seeing Valmajour, he exclaims, “ Ah, it is you!” 
and makes one bound towards him, while through the 
side-doors are seen the backs of the frightened secreta- 
ries, who are running away in terror, carrying with them 
piles of pamphlet-boxes. 

“ Well, will you never cease to persecute me with your 
cheap music? Was not one failure enough? How 
many do you wish? Now they tell me you are on the 
walls in a fancy costume! What is this hoax that has 
just been brought me, your biography? A fabrication of 
nonsense and falsehoods. You know very well that you 
are no more a prince than I, and that these parchments 
they talk about have never existed excepting in your 
imagination.” 

With an excited, brutal gesture he grasped the un- 
happy fellow by the middle of the jacket, took up a 
whole handful of it, and shook him as he spoke. In the 
first place, this skating affair would not bring in a sow. 
They were good for nothing but puffs. They would not 


pay him ; and there would be only the shame of his name 
a 18 


222 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


shown up in dirty colors, with that of his protector. “The 
papers would begin their jokes again. Roumestar. and 
Valmajour the minister’s galoubet/ And, becoming ex- 
cited at the memory of these insults, his broad cheeks 
shaking with a fit of aunt Portal’s family anger, which was 
even more frightful in the solemn business surroundings 
where personalities are kept out of sight, he shouted with 
all his might, — 

“Take yourself away, you wretch! take yourself away ! 
We do not wish any more of you. We have had enough 
of your galoubet.” 

Valmajour was stunned, and let him talk, while stam- 
mering, “‘ Very well, very well,” and looked imploringly 
at Méjean’s pitying face, the only one whom the master’s 
anger had not driven away, and at the great portrait of 
Fontanes which seemed scandalized at such violence. 
His ministerial air became more noticeable, as Roumes- 
tan lost his. Finally, being freed from the strong grasp 
which held him, the musician reached the door, and fled 
in despair, with his tickets for the skating entertainment. 

“¢ Cabantous the pilot,” said Numa, reading the name 
presented to him by the impassive usher. “Another 
Valmajour! No, indeed! I have had enough of being 
their dupe. It is over for to-day. I will see no more.” 

He began to walk up and down his office, expending. 
what remained of that great anger of which Valmajour 
had unjustly borne the whole force. ‘That Cardaillac! 
What impudence! ‘To come and reproach him about 
the little one, in the presence of Méjean and Roche- 
maure, here at the ministry! Really I am too weak. 
The nomination of that man to the Opéra is a serious 
mistake.” His associate shared this opinion, but took 
care not to express it; for Numa was no longer the 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 223 


good-natured fellow of former days, who was the first to 
laugh at his fooleries, and to receive raillery and remon- 
-strance. Having become the practical head of the cabi- 
net, owing to the speech at Chambéry and a few other 
exhibitions of oratorical prowess, the intoxication of 
living on the heights, and in that kingly atmosphere in 
which the strongest heads are upset, had changed him, 
and made him nervous, headstrong, and irritable. 

A door beneath the hangings opened; and Mme. 
Roumestan appeared, ready to go out, and elegantly 
dressed with an ample cloak hiding her figure. With the 
serene look that had lighted her pretty face for five 
months, she asked, “Is there a council to-day ?— Good 
morning, M. Méjean.” 

“Why, yes, a council, a sitting, every thing.’ 

“T was coming to ask you to go to mamma’s. I shall 
breakfast there. Hortense would have been so pleased !” 

“You see that it is not possible. I ought to be at 
Versailles at noon,” said Numa, looking at his watch. 

“Then I will wait for you. I will drive you to the 
station.” 

Numa hesitated only a second. “ Well, I will sign this, 
and we will leave.” 

While he was writing, Rosalie, in a low voice, gave 
Méjean news about her sister. The winter weather was 
affecting her, and they had forbidden her going out. 
Why did he not go to see her? She needed all her 
friends. Méjean, with a sad, discouraged look, said, 
“Oh! 1” — 

“Why, yes, yes. Do not despair. It is only a caprice. 
I am sure it will not last.” 

She took a favorable view of the matter, and wished 
all her world to be as happy as herself, on account of a 


> 


224 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


joy so complete that she had a cautious superstition 
about confessing it. Roumestan, on his part, told of his 
expectation everywhere, to the indifferent as well as to 
intimate friends ; and, with comical pride, “‘ We shall calt 
him the child of the ministry,” he said, and he laughed 
until he wept. Truly, for those who did not know of his 
life away from home, the town establishment imprudently 
kept up with receptions and an open table, this demon- 
strative and tender husband, who spoke of his future 
paternity with tears in his eyes, seemed unfathomable 
and content in his falsehood, sincere in his expressions, 
and to have baffled the judgments of those who did not 
know the dangerous complications of Southern natures. 

“TJ will drive you, certainly,’ he said to his wife, as he 
entered the carriage. 

“ But if people are expecting your” 

“Oh! I can’t help it. Let them wait. We shall- not 
be together long.” 

He took Rosalie’s arm in his, and, pressing her to him 
as if she were a child, said, — 

“ Té/ do you know, I am only happy with you. Your 
gentleness quiets me, and your coolness comforts me. 
That Cardaillac put me in such a state! He is a man 
without conscience or morality.” 

“Were you not acquainted with him, then?” 

“He manages the theatre. It is a shame.” 

“Tt is true that the engagement of that Miss Bachel- 
lery — Why did you consent to it? — a girl who is false 
in every thing, —2in her youth, voice, and even her eye- 
lashes.” 

Numa felt that he was blushing. He now fastened 
them on for her with the tips of his big fingers. The 
mamma taught him how. 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 228 


“To whom, then, does the worthless creature belong? | 
‘The Messenger’ spoke the other day of lofty influence 
and a mysterious protection.” 

“T don’t know. To Cardaillac, no doubt.” He turned 
round to hide his embarrassment, and suddenly threw 
himself back alarmed. 

“What is it?’ asked Rosalie, also looking through the 
portiére. Tt was a very large notice of the skating enter- 
tainment, in harsh colors, which stood out under the gray 
rainy sky, and was repeated at every corner of the street, 
and at every empty place on a bare wall or the planks of 
an enclosure. There was a gigantic troubadour surround- 
ed by a border of tableaux, a great yellow, green, and 
blue spot, with a yellow dab thrown crosswise to represent 
atambourine. ‘The long fence which encloses the build- 
ings of the Hotel de Ville, before which their carriage 
was passing just then, was covered with the coarse, glar- 
ing advertisement, which startled even the Parisian idler. 

“My executioner!” said Roumestan, with comical 
distress. 

“No, your victim,” said Rosalie, gently chiding ; “and 
if he were the only one! But another has caught the 
fire of your enthusiasm.” 

“Who is it?” 

“Hortense.” 

She then told him of what she was finally certain, in 
spite of the young girl’s mystery, —of her love for this 
peasant, what she at first thought a fancy, and which dis- 
turbed her now as a moral aberration in her sister. 

The minister became indignant. “Is it possible! 
That booby! that jeannot/” 

“She sees him through her imagination, and more 
than all through the medium of your legends and inven- 


226 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


tions, which she does not know how to see in their true 
light. That is why this advertisement and grotesque 
coloring which irritates you fills me, on the contrary, 
with joy. I think that her hero will appear so ridiculous 
to her that she will not dare love him any longer. Oth- 
erwise I do not know what would become of us. Can 
you imagine my father’s despair? can you picture your- 
self as Valmajour’s brother-in-law? Ah! Numa, poor 
creator of unconscious dupes!” 

He did not defend himself; but was irritated with 
himself for the “cursed South” in him, which he did 
not know how to overcome. 

“There, you ought always to remain as you are now, 
close to me, my dear adviser, my holy protector. ‘There 
is no one so kind and indulgent as you who understand 
and love me.” 

He held her little gloved hand to his lips, and spoke 
with so much conviction that true tears reddened his 
eyelids. Then, warmed and relieved by this effusion, he 
felt better; and when they reached the Place Royale, 
and he had assisted his wife to alight with a thousand 
tender precautions, it was with a joyous tone, free of all 
remorse, that he sang out to his coachman, “Rue de 
Londres, quickly.” 

Rosalie, who walked slowly, heard this address ; and it 
gave her a vague feeling of pain. Not that she had the 
slightest suspicion, but he had just told her that he was 
going to the station at St. Lazare: why did his acts never 
respond to his words? Another anxiety awaited her in 
her sister’s room, where she heard, as she entered, the 
end of a discussion between Hortense and Audiberte, 
who still had a stormy countenance, the ribbon in her 
hair shaking with her fury. The presence of Rosalie 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 229, 


restrained her, as was visible by the expression of her 
lips, and frowning, wicked-looking eyebrows: but when 
Rosalie asked after her health, she was forced to answer, 
and then spoke excitedly of the eskating, of the fine 
attractions held out to them; and, becoming astonished 
at her calmness, she asked almost insolently, “ Will not 
madame go to hear my brother? It is worth while, if 
only to see him in his costume.” Hearing this ridiculous 
costume described by her, in her peasant vocabulary, 
from the notches on his cap to the pointed curve of the 
shoes, put poor Hortense on the rack, and she did not 
dare raise her eyes to her sister’s face. Rosalie excused 
herself because her health would not permit her to go to 
the theatre. Besides, in Paris there were some places 
of amusement to which every woman could not go. 
The peasant woman stopped her at the first word. “ Par- 
don: I go there as much as I like, and I think I am as 
good as any one. I have never done any thing wrong. 
I have always fulfilled my veZ%géous duties.” She raised 
her voice, and showed none of her former timidity, as if 
she had acquired rights in the house. But Rosalie was 
far too kind, too much above this poor ignorant creature, 
to humiliate her, especially when thinking of the respon- 
sibility of Numa towards her. Then, with the kindest 
motives of her heart, and with all her natural delicacy, 
she spoke the words of truth which cure while slightly 
searing, and tried to make her understand that her broth- 
er had not succeeded, and that he never would succeed 
in this Paris which was so hard to please; and that, 
rather than continue in a humiliating struggle, and lose 
money in the career of an artist, it would be better to 
return to the country, buy back their house and every 
thing, the means for which would be provided, and to 


228 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


forget in their life of labor, in the heart of nature, all the 
mortifications of their unfortunate expedition. 

The peasant woman heard her to the end, without 
interrupting her, simply darting a satirical look at Hor- 
tense, from her evil eyes, in order to excite her to a 
reply. Finally, seeing that the young girl would not say 
any thing more, she coolly declared that they would not 
go away, and that her brother had engagements of every 
kind, — of every kind, — which it was impossible not to 
meet. Thereupon she threw over her arm the heavy 
damp mantle that had been on the back of a chair, and 
bowed hypocritically to Rosalie, with a “ Very good-day, 
madame, and I thank you, at least,” then went away, 
followed by Hortense. 

When in the antechamber, lowering her voice because 
of the servants, she said, ‘Shall it be Sunday evening? 
Half-past ten without fail.” And then, becoming urgent 
and authoritative, she went on, “ You know that you owe 
it to your poor friend. To give him heart. What do 
you risk? I will come for you. I will take you there.” 
Seeing her still hesitate, she added almost in a loud voice, 
pitching it to a threat, — 

“ Ah, ca / are you engaged to him? Yes, or no?” 

“T will come, I will come,” said the young girl, 
alarmed. 

When she returned, Rosalie, who saw her looking sad 
and absent-minded, asked, — 

“What are you thinking of, my darling? Does your 
romance still continue? It must be quite advanced by 
this time,” she added gayly, clasping her waist. 

“Oh, yes, quite advanced !” 

Then in a dull, melancholy tone, Hortense resumed, 
after a pause, — 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 229 


“But I do not see the end.” 

She loved him no longer: perhaps she had never loved 
him. Transformed by absence and the mild éc/a¢ which 
misfortune gave to the gallant chevalier, he seemed to 
her like the man of her destiny, and she was proud to 
bind her life to one who was losing every thing, success 
and protection. But on her return she saw with pitiless 
clearness and terror how mistaken she had been in him. 
Audiberte shocked her on her first visit by her strange 
ways, which she thought too free and familiar, and the 
guilty look with which she said to her in a low voice, 
“ He will come for me: hush! don’t say any thing about 
it.” She seemed to her too prompt and bold, especially 
in introducing the young man to her parents’ house. 
But the peasant girl wished to hasten matters ; and Hor- 
tense at once understood her mistake, at the sight of this 
strolling actor tossing back his hair as if inspired, and 
removing the Provengal hat from his peculiar head which 
was still handsome, and an evident attempt was made to 
have it appear so. 

Instead of showing himself humble and apologetic 
towards Hortense for the generous impulse in his behalf, 
he retained the victorious foppish air assumed after his 
conquest ; and without saying a word, for he would 
hardly have known what to say, he treated the delicate 
Parisian lady as he would the Combette girl under similar 
circumstances, — took her by the waist with the gesture 
of a troubadour soldier, and tried to draw her to him. 
She disengaged herself, every nerve shocked from a feel- 
ing of repulsion, and left him startled and _ foolish. 
Audiberte quickly intervened, and scolded her brother 
severely. What did he mean by such manners? He 
had learned them at Paris, in the Faubourg St. Germain, 


230 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


with his duchesses, no doubt. “Wait at least until she 
is your wife,” she said; and to Hortense, “He loves 
you so much, his blood is on fire, pecairé.” 

After this, when Valmajour came for his sister, he 
assumed the gloomy look of despair, of the man in the 
vignette, in the musical scene, “The sea awaits me, 
the cavalier Hadjoute.” The young girl should have 
been touched, but the poor fellow seemed decidedly 
too insignificant. He did not know what to do, and 
smoothed the nap of his felt hat, while telling of his 
success in the faubourg of the nobility or of the rivalries 
he encountered as an actor. He talked to her for an 
hour one day of the rudeness of the handsome Mayol, 
who did not congratulate him after a concert; and he 
kept repeating all the time, — 

“That is your Mayol. £é/ your Mayol is not polite.” 

Audiberte all the while preserved her watchful attitude, 
and the severity of a gend’arme of morals, before these 
two cold lovers. Ah! if she could have divined the 
disgust and dreadful scorn in the soul of Hortense ! 

“ FTou / the coward, the coward !”’ she said sometimes, 
trying to laugh, with her eyes full of anger; for she 
thought the affair dragged too slowly, and believed that 
the young girl hesitated on account of the reproaches 
and repugnance of her parents. As if they would have 
been heeded by the proud, independent girl, if there had 
been true love in her heart! but how can one say, “I 
love him,” and arm one’s self, get excited, and contend, 
when one does not love ? 

And yet she had promised; and every day she was 
harassed by new exigencies, like this “rehearsal” at the 
skating-rink, to which the peasant girl wished to take her 
by force, counting on the success and influence of the 


ROUMESTAN’S VICTIMS. 231 


applause to carry her away. And after long resistance 
the poor child finally consented to go out that evening, 
unknown to her mother, by resorting to falsehoods and 
humilitating complicity, — she yielded through fear and 
weakness, and perhaps also in the hope of again finding 
her first fancy, the vanished mirage, and of rekindling 
the flame extinguished in despair. 


232 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER XVI. 
THE SKATING-RINK. 


WHERE was it? Where was she going? The hack 
had rolled on a long, long time, with Audiberte seated at 
her side holding her hands, re-assuring her, and talking 
with feverish warmth. Hortense looked at nothing, and 
heard nothing; and the grating of the little harsh voice 
near her mingling with the noise of the wheels had no 
meaning for her ; nor did the streets, boulevards, and the 
fagades seem to have their usual appearance. They wore 
a new coloring through her strong inward emotion, as if 
she looked upon them from a funeral or wedding car- 
riage. Finally, with a jolt, they stopped before a broad 
sidewalk flooded with a glare of light, in which the 
jostling crowd were defined in deep shadows. At the 
entrance of a broad corridor, they came to a window 
where the tickets were sold; then through a red-velvet 
swinging door at once entered a large hall, whose inte- 
rior resembled the nave, broad circumference, and high 
stuccoed walls of an English church where she once 
attended a wedding. But here the walls were covered 
with notices, and various advertisements of confection- 
ery, cork hats, and shirts to order at “4 fr. 50,” alter- 
nating with the portraits of the tambourinist, whose 
biography was called out in the peculiar voice of 4dretto 
boys, in the midst of a deafening noise, in which the 
murmur of the moving crowd, the humming of balls on 


THE SKATING-RINK. 253 


a billiard-table, the calling of eatables for sale, and buists 
of harmony interspersed with patriotic fusillades from the 
end of the hail, were drowned by a perpetual sound of 
rolling skates going and coming across a broad railed 
space covered with asphaltum, in a crowd of crush hats 
and hats in the style of the Directory. Hortense walked 
behind the Provencal woman, feeling anxious and lost, 
and looking red and pale by turns beneath her veil. 
With difficulty she followed her through a labyrinth of 
small round tables in a row, at which women sat two by 
two drinking, with their elbows on the table, and a cigar- 
ette between their lips, their knees drawn up, and with a 
look of exnuz on their faces. At intervals there was a 
well-filled counter against the wall, and a girl standing 
behind it, with a circle of kohl beneath her eyes, and a 
scrubby black or red wig, with glittering steel in a 
tangle on her forehead. The black and white skin, and 
smiling lips painted with vermilion, were found in all, 
like a livery worn by wan, nightly apparitions. The slow 
walk of the men also seemed sinister, as they rudely and 
insolently pressed between the tables, sending the smoke 
of their big cigars to the right and left, and being insult- 
ing in their manner of purchasing and drawing near to 
see the show. What most gave it the appearance of 2 
market was the cosmopolitan public, speaking various 
tongues, —the hotel guests just arrived, and coming 
there in travelling negligé, with Scotch caps, striped 
jackets, and shawls still impregnated with the fogs of the 
Channel; and the Muscovites in furs trying to thaw 
themselves out; and Tartars from the Sprée, with long 
black beards and arrogant airs, hiding their animal-like 
yawns and hunger; and Turks in their fez and coats 


without collars ; negroes shining as their black silk hats ; 
16 


234 NUMA ROUMESTAWN- 


and little shrivelled Japanese dressed in correct Europe- 
an style, looking like scorched engravings of men dis- 
played in tailors’ shops. 

“Bou Diou! how ugly he is!” said Audiberte sud- 
denly, as she found herself before a very grave China: 
man with a long braid down the back of his blue robe. 
Then she stopped, and nudged her companion’s elbow. 

“See! see the bride!” she said, pointing to a woman 
stretched out on two chairs, one of which supported her 
white satin boots with silver heels. She was dressed in 
white, with an open corsage, a broad train, and orange- 
flowers fastening a short lace mantilla thrown over her 
hair. Then, becoming suddenly scandalized at the words 
which enlightened her in regard to this accidental orange- 
blossom, the Provencale added mysteriously, “ Danger- 
ous, you know.” 

Then, to take Hortense from this evil example, she 
quickly drew her into the centre of the hall, where, in 
the background, in the place of the choir of a church, 
was the stage of the theatre; beneath, intermittent elec- 
tric lights, falling from two globular port-holes, and above, 
in the friezes, the two projecting, luminous eyes of a 
holy image. Here one found rest from the noisy scan- 
dals of the promenades. In the stalls were the families 
of small dourgeois and tradesmen of the neighborhood, 
but only a few women. One would have believed him- 
self in a hall witnessing some spectacle, had it not been 
for the horrible sharp noise of the skating, which rose 
above all others with its regular, persistent rolling, which 
drowned even the sound of the brass instruments and 
drums of the orchestra, and rendered only the mimicry 
of tableaux possible. 

The curtain then fell on a patriotic scene, — the lion 


THE SKATING-RINK. 235 


of Belfort, a huge creature in pasteboard, surrounded by 
soldiers in triumphant poses on crumbling ramparts, with 
képis on the end of their guns, and following the meas- 
ures of an inaudible Marseillaise. The excitement and 
delirium stirred the Provengale ; and her eyes stood out 
of her head, and she said as she gave Hortense a seat, — 

“We are having a good time, gu¢é? But raise your 
veil. Don’t tremble. With me there is no danger.” 

The young girl, followed by the insolent people slowly 
promenading, among whose pale faces she was lost, made 
no reply. Before her she saw them again, with their 
coarse red lips, in two grimacing clowns in tights, dislo- 
cating themselves, a bell in each hand, and rattling off 
an air from “Martha” in the midst of their antics: it 
was true gnomish music, crude and stuttering, and quite 
in place with the harmonious babel of the skating. Then 
the curtain fell again; and the peasant, who had arisen 
and sat down a dozen times, moving restlessly, and ad- 
justing her head-dress, suddenly exclaimed as she fol- 
lowed the programme, — 

“The Mount of Cordova ! the locusts! the farandole ? 
It is beginning ; see! see!” 

The curtain, raised once more, showed on the canvas 
in the background a lilac hill, where white masonry of 
odd construction, half castle, half mosque, rose in mina- 
rets and terraces, and stood out in pointed arches and 
battlements and towers, with aloes and zinc palm-trees at 
the foot of motionless towers, beneath a very harsh in- 
digo sky. In the suburbs of Paris, among the villas of 
men who have grown rich in trade, one sees this droll 
architecture. In spite of every thing, in spite of the 
harsh tones of banks of flowering thyme, and the exotic 
plants that found their way there for the Mount of Cor- 


238 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


dova, Hortense experienced a feeling of embarrassment 
at this landscape from which arose her happiest memo- 
ries, and at this Casbah of Osmanli cn a mountain of 
pink porphyry. The reconstructed castle seemed to her 
the realization of her dream, but fantastic and top-heavy, 
as when the dream is about to change to the oppressive- 
ness of a nightmare. 

At a sign from the orchestra and at the fiashing elec- 
tric jet, long dragon-flies, represented by girls in clinging 
emerald-green silk tights, sprang forward, waving long, 
veined wings, and grating castanets. 

“ Only locusts !” said the Provencale indignantly. 

They were already formed in a half-circle, in an aqua- 
marine crescent, and were shaking their castanets very 
distinctly ; for the noise of the skaters was becoming 
fainter, and a circle of buzzing voices was hushed as a 
crowd of heads drew near, and, leaning over, looked be- 
tween head-gear of every kind. The sadness weighing 
on Hortense increased when she heard approaching in 
the distance, and swelling as it drew nearer, the deep 
rolling of the tambourine. She would have liked to fly 
to spare herself the sight of what was coming. The fiute 
sent forth its thin notes in turn; and the dancers of the 
Jarandole, their feet keeping time to the music, raised 
the dust from the carpet, which was the color of earth, 
and wound along in their fancy costumes, — short and 
glaring skirts, red stockings clocked with gold, spangled 
jackets, head-gear of sequins and Madras, in Italian, 
Caux, and Breton style, with a fine Parisian scorn for 
local truthfulness. Behind them, with measured steps, 
pushing backward with his knee a tambourine covered 
with gold-paper, came the great troubadour, as repre- 
sented by the advertisements, in half-tights, one leg yel- 


THE SKATING-RINK. 234 


low with a blue stocking, and the other blue with a yellow 
stocking, and wearing a jacket of puffed satin. The veb 
vet cap shaded a face that was brown in spite of the 
paint, and of which one could see only a mustache 
stiff with Hungarian pomade. 

“Oh!” said Audiberte in ecstasy. 

The farandole was formed on both sides of the stage, 
before the locusts with large wings. The troubadour, 
who stood alone in the middle, bowed with an assured, 
victorious air, under the gaze of the image of God the 
Father, which powdered Valmajour’s vest with a lumin- 
ous frost. The serenade began rustic and weak, hardly 
reaching beyond the foot-lights ; and then, taking a short 
flight, struggled a moment in the banners of the ceiling 
and in the pillars of the large structure, to fall back upon 
the ears of a silent, bored audience. The public looked 
on without understanding. Valmajour began another 
piece, which, after the first measures, was received with 
derisive laughter, murmurs, and exclamations, Audiberte, 
taking Hortense’s hand, whispered, — 

“Tt is the cabal; pay attention.” 

The cabal here was represented in several cries of 
“Hush!” “ Louder!” and jokes uttered in the hoarse 
voice of a woman, when witnessing the complicated 
mimicry of Valmajour. 

“ Have you done, learned rabbit ?” 

Then the noise of rolling skates and English billiards 
and busy footsteps drowned the flute and tambourine 
which the musician persisted in playing until the end of 
the serenade, after which he bowed, advanged towards 
the footlights, still followed by the hidden light which did 
not once leave him. His lips were seen to move and 


frame a few words. 
16 


238 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Tt came to me—one stop—three stops— God’s 
birds.” 

His despairing gesture, understood by the orchestra, 
wa3 the signal for a ballet in which the locusts embraced 
the houris of Caux who stood in plastic poses, or moved 
in a swaying, lascivious dance under the rainbow-hues of 
Bengal lights which reached the pointed shoes of the 
troubadour, who continued his tambourine mimicry in 
glorious apotheosis before the castle of his ancestors. 

And this was her romance. ‘This was what Paris had 
made him. 

The old time-piece in her room having sounded in its 
clear tone one o’clock, Hortense rose from the easy-chair 
on which she had fallen exhausted on entering, looked 
around at her sweet virgin nest, in the comforting warmth 
of a fire in embers, and the soft light of a night-lamp. 
“What am I doing here? Why amI not in bed?” she . 
wondered. 

She remembered nothing ; feeling only stiff and sore in 
every part of her body, with a noise in her head that 
made her temples throb. She took a few steps forward, 
perceived that she still had her hat and cloak on, and 
every thing came back to her. The departure from that 
place after the curtain had fallen; their return through 
the hideous market where the excitement increased 
towards the close of the evening; the drunken book- 
makers fighting before a counter, and cynical voices 
whispering some number as she passed ; the scene with 
Audiberte, who wished her to come and congratulate her 
brother ; the insults which the angry creature hurled upon 
her on their way home in the hack, and her humility 
while kissing her hand and asking her pardon, — were 
all mingled together, and whirled through her mind as 


THE SKATING-RINK. 239 


well as the leaping of clowns, the discordance- of bells, 
cymbals, and rattles, and the streams of variegated flame, 
around the ridiculous troubadour to whom she had given 
her heart. She shuddered with horror at this idea. 

“No, no, never! I would rather die.” 

She suddenly saw in the glass before her a spectre with 
hollow cheeks and narrow chest bent forward with a shiv- 
ering gesture. It resembled her a little, but much more 
the Princess d’Anhalt, whose sad symptoms she noted in 
pitying curiosity at Arvillard, and who had just died at 
the beginning of winter. 

“Stay ! stay!” 

She leaned over, looked at herself nearer, and recalled 
the unexplainable kindness which they had all shown her 
at the springs, her mother’s fear, and the tenderness of 
Bouchereau at her departure ; and she understood. At 
last she had her dénovment. It came of itself. She had 
been seeking it a long while. 


240 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 


“ MADEMOISELLE is very ill. Madame does not wish to 
see any one.” 

Audiberte had received this same answer a dozen 
times. She stood motionless with her eyes on the 
ground before the heavy arched door with a knocker, 
such as are seldom found excepting in the Place Royale, 
and which being closed seemed to forever forbid her 
admittance into the ancient home of the Le Quesnoys. 
“Very well,” she said.. “I will not come again. They 
shall send for me now.” Greatly excited, she walked 
away through the stir and bustle of this business locality, 
where trucks laden with bales, barrels, and rattling, flexi- 
ble rods of iron, met wheelbarrows rolling under porches 
into yards where cases of packages were being nailed. 
But the peasant did not perceive the infernal racket 
and the jarring of the busy traffic which shook even 
the upper stories of high houses. In her wicked head 
there was another kind of jarring, from hard thoughts 
and from the thwarting of her will. She went along 
without fatigue, and, to save the expense of an omni- 
bus, crossed on foot the length of the Marais to the Rue 
de l’Abbaye-Montmartre. 

Quite recently, after a wild wandering through every 
kind of building, through hotels and furnished apart- 
ments, from all of which they were expelled on account 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 241 


of the tambourine, her family had settled here in a new 
house, occupied at whitewasher’s prices by a motley 
lot of fast women, Bohemians, business agents, and 
families of adventurers such as one finds in seaports, 
loitering on hotel-balconies among the arrivals and de- 
partures, watching the stream of humanity from which 
they are always expecting something. Here they are 
looking for fortune. The rent was very dear for them, 
especially now that the skating-entertainment was a fail- 
ure, and it became necessary to advertise Valmajour’s 
few performances; but in these freshly painted quar- 
ters, where the door was kept open at every hour for 
the convenience of the various unmentionable professions 
of the lodgers, among whom quarrels and disputes were 
frequent, the tambourine disturbed no one. It was the 
tambourinist who disturbed himself. The advertisements, 
notices, tights, and handsome mustaches had made rav- 
ages among the ladies at the skating-rink, who were less 
prudish than these minxes. He was now acquainted 
with actors from Batignolles, and singers in café-con- 
certs, and the gay society that is met in a hovel of the 
Boulevard Rochecouart called the “ Paillasson.” 

This Paillasson, where time was passed in dissolute 
lounging, playing cards, drinking bock, and staring at the 
pinchbeck performers of small theatres, and in low gal- 
lantry, was the terror and enemy of Audiberte, and the 
cause of her fierce anger, beneath which the two men 
bowed their backs as under a storm of the tropics. They 
were ready to curse their despot in a green skirt, and 
spoke of her in the mysterious tone of hatred of school- 
boys and servants. ‘What did she say? How much 
did she give you?” and crept along behind her heels. 
Audiberte knew it, and watched them, and when out 


242 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


hurried, being impatient to return ; this day in particular, 
having been away from home since morning. She stopped 
a second as she went up, and, hearing neither tambourine 
nor flute, said, “ Ah, the beggar! he is still at his Paillas- 
son.” But as soon as she entered, her father ran to meet 
her, and stopped the outburst. 

“Don’t bawl so. There is company for you—a gen- 
tleman from the ministry.”’ 

Méjean waited for her in the parlor ; for, as it happens, 
in adventurers’ houses, built by contract, the stories of 
which are exactly alike, they had a parlor, embellished 
hke some delicate confection made with beaten eggs, 
with the cream of every thing, and of which the peasant 
girl was very proud. Méjean looked compassionately at 
the provincial furniture, which was lost in this dentist’s 
waiting-room, which glared in the harsh light of two cur- 
tainless windows. It comprised nondescript articles and 
pieces of tinware, and a kneading-trough and basket, 
chipped and shaken by moving and travelling, and which 
shook off their rustic dust on the gilding and paintings in 
gum. Audiberte’s pure, proud profile in Sunday ribbons, 
which also looked out of place in this fifth story of a real 
Parisian house, increased his pity for these victims of 
Roumestan ; and he gently explained the purpose of his 
visit. ‘The minister, wishing to save the Valmajours from 
new disappointments, for which to a certain degree he 
felt responsible, sent them five thousand francs to pay 
them for giving up their home and for the attendant ex- 
penses, and to send them back to their native land. He 
drew the notes from his pocket-book, and placed them 
on the old walnut trough. 

“Then we must leave?” the peasant woman thught- 
fully asked without stirring. 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 243 


“The minister desires that it shall be as soon as possi- 
ble. He is in haste to know that you are at your own 
house, happy as before.” 

Valmajour the elder ventured a glance at the notes. 
“That seems to me reasonable. What do you say to 
it?” he asked Audiberte. 

She said nothing, waiting for the end, which Méjean 
was preparing while turning his pocket-book over and 
over. 

“To these five thousand francs we will add five thou- 
sand, which are here, in order to get back—to get 
back ”— 

Emotion choked him. Rosalie had given him a cruel 
commission. Ah! it often costs a great deal to pass for 
a strong and peaceable man: much more was exacted of 
him than of other persons. He quickly added in a very 
low tone, “The portrait of Mlle. Le Quesnoy.” 

“ Ah! that’s it—the portrait. I knew it, fava.” She 
accented her words in a skipping manner, like a goat. 
“You think that they can make us come from the other 
end of France, and can promise every thing to us who 
asked nothing, and then can send us off like dogs. 
Take back your money, sir! Most certainly we shall not 
leave. You can say so; and we will not return the por- 
trait. It is like a contract. I keep it in my bag. It 
never leaves me. And I shall show it in Paris, with what 
is written at the bottom of it, that the world may know 
that these Roumestans are a family of liars ! liars ! lars !”’ 
She was foaming. 

“Mlle. Le Quesnoy is very ill,” said Méjean gravely. 

“Avai /” 

“She is going to leave Paris, and will probably never 
return alive.” 


944 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Audiberte made no answer ; but the silent laughter in 
her eyes, the unrelenting look on her low, obstinate fore- 
head, like that of an antique statue, under her little 
pointed cap, sufficiently showed the firmness of her re- 
fusal. A temptation then passed over Méjean to spring 
upon her, and to tear the calico bag from her waist, and 
run away with it. He restrained himself, however, and 
tried a few useless prayers. Then he, too, began to trem- 
ble with rage. “ You will repent!” he said, and left the 
room, to the great regret of the elder Valmajour. 

“Reflect, Pichotte’ you will bring some misfortune 
upon us.” 

“ Never. We will make trouble for them. I am going 
to consult Guilloche.” 

“ GUILLOCHE: DiIspuTED Cais.” Behind this yellow 
card, pasted on the door opposite, there was one of those 
dreaded business-agents, whose whole office-furniture con- 
sisted of a very large leather bag, containing piles of 
doubtful histories, stamped paper, and also white paper 
for letters of denunciation and of extortion, crusts of 
pastry, a false beard, and sometimes even a hammer to 
knock down milkmaids, as was shown in a recent law- 
suit. This type, which is very common in Paris, would 
not be worthy a line of portrayal, if the said Guilloche, 
whose name describes his face, which was seamed with a 
thousand little wrinkles in rows, had not added a new 
and characteristic detail to his profession. He wrote the 
poem of collegians. A poor devil of a clerk went about 
picking up tasks when recitations were over, and sat up 
late into the night copying verses of the Eneid, or the 
three voices of Avw. When disputed claims failed, Guil- 
loche, who was a bachelor, settled down to this original 
business, the credit of which he claimed. When familiar 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 245 


with the matter, he declared it capital. They would set 
the papers going, and arraign the minister. 

The likeness itself was worth a mine of gold, only it 
would take time and running about, and advances which 
he exacted in something that had the ring of coin, as the 
Puyfourcat inheritance seemed a pure mirage. ‘This dis- 
tressed the rapacious peasant-girl, who was already cruelly 
tried, and all the more because Valmajour, who was 
much sought after in sa/ons the first winter, no longer set 
foot in the Faubourg St. Germain. “It can’t be helped: 
I will work. I will save, zow/” and the energetic little 
Arles head-dress shook as she moved around the large, 
new house, and went up and down stairs, retailing her 
story about the minister from floor to floor, and getting 
worked up, and scolding and jumping about. Then sud- 
denly becoming mysterious, she would say, — 

“Then, there is the likeness.”” She showed it with the 
furtive sly look of photograph-venders in passage-ways, 
when old libertines inquire for women in tights. “ A pretty 
girl, certainly ; and did you read what is at the bottom?” 
This scene occurred in houses of doubtful character, 
among skaters or people from the Paillasson, whom she 
pompously called “Mme. Malvina, Mme. Heloise,” who 
were very impressive in their velvet dresses, their che- 
mises bordered with embroidery and ribbon, and the 
fancy-work which belonged to their business ; and she 
did not care much what the business was. The portrait 
of the dear creature, so distinguished and delicate, re- 
ceived the insults of these curious, criticising women. 
They gossiped about her, and read the innocent avowal, 
and laughed at it. The Provengal woman, recovering 
her property with a furious gesture, and choking, fas- 
tened the slide of the bag containing the crowns. “I 


5 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


QA 
=—=' 


think that by means of this we have them. Zou,” and 
away she went to the usher of the skating-rink, the usher 
for Cardaillac, and the usher for Roumestan ; then, as if 
that were not sufficient for her warlike humor, she still 
had stories to tell the concierges about the everlasting 
tambourine which now was banished by the exile of 
Valmajour in the cellar of a wine-dealer, where the 
noise of hunting-horns alternates with lessons in boxing 
and pugilism. It was in this cellar, by the light of a gas- 
jet paid for by the hour, that the tambourinist, wan and 
solitary as a prisoner, passed his hours of exercise look- 
ing at the linen shoes with soles of braided mat-weed, 
bvckskin gloves, and copper horns hung on the wall, and 
sending out on the sidewalk variations from his flute in 
strident, plaintive notes. 

One day Audiberte was invited to stop at the house of 
the commissioner of police in the neighborhood. She 
ran there very fast, persuaded that it was something 
about cousin Puyfourcat; and she entered quickly, her 
head held high, but came out in a quarter of an hour 
overcome with a peasant’s fear of the gendarme who, at 
the very first words, made her return the likeness, and 
sign a receipt of ten thousand francs for which she gave 
up her lawsuit. However, she obstinately refused to 
leave Paris, and persisted in believing in her brother’s 
genius ; for she still retained in the depths of her eyes 
the glitter of that long file of carriages one winter even- 
ing in the court of the illuminated ministry. On return- 
ing home, she informed her men, who were more timid 
than she, that they need not speak of the matter any 
more, but did not mention the money received. Guil- 
loche, who suspected that she had the money, employed 
every means to get his share ; and, having obtained only 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 247 


a minimum indemnity, he cherished a great rancor against 
the Valmajours. 

“Well,” he said one morning to Audiberte as she stood 
‘on the landing, brushing the best suit of the musician, 
who was still abed, — “ well, you will be glad: he is dead 
at last.” 

“ce Who ? ” 

“Why, Puyfourcat, your cousin. It is in the news- 
paper.” 

She gave a cry, ran into the house, calling out, and 
almost weeping, — 

“ Father — brother — quick — the inheritance !” 

As they all stood excited and breathless around the 
infernal Guilloche, he unfolded “The Officiel,” and read 
to them very slowly the following: “ Dated Oct. 1, 1876: 
the first tribunal of Mostaganem has, at the request of 
the officer of the administration of estates, ordered pub- 
lication and notices of the successions hereinafter men- 
tioned. Popelino (Louis), day-laborer. That’s not the 
one. Puyfourcat (Dosithée).” 

“That is he,” said Audiberte. 

The old man thought he must wipe his eyes. “ Péca- 
tré/ Poor Dosithée.” 

“ Puyfourcat, deceased at Mostaganem on the r4th 
of Fanuary, 1874, born at Valmajour, in the commune of 
Aps.” 

The peasant-girl impatiently asked, — 

“How much?” 

“Three francs, thirty-five centimes!” shouted Guil- 
loche in the voice of a street-pedler; and, leaving the 
_ paper with them that they might verify the disappointing 
news, he ran away, with a burst of laughter which pealed 
from story to story, and reached the street where it 


248 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


roused to mirth all the great village of Montmartre where 
the legend of the Valmajours circulated. “Three francs, 
thirty-five centimes,” the Puyfourcat inheritance! Audi- 
berte affected to laugh louder than the others; but the 
frightful desire for vengeance which was growing in her 
against the Roumestans, who in her eyes were respon- 
sible for all their ills, only increased the need of an outlet, 
some way of avenging, and the first weapon within reach. 

Papa’s countenance in this disaster was singular to 
behold. While his daughter was overpowered by fatigue 
and rage, and his son like a prisoner was pining away in 
his cellar, he, blooming and careless, without his former 
professional jealousy, seemed to have arranged a quiet 
life for himself apart from his family. He decamped 
immediately after the last mouthful of breakfast. Some- 
times in the morning, when brushing his clothes, a dried 
fig, a caramel, and cazissons dropped from his pocket, 
which the old man explained as well as he could. 

He had met a countrywoman in the street, who in- 
sisted on coming to see them. 

Audiberte shook her head. 

“Avai/ If I had been following you!” 

The truth was, that while lounging through Paris he 
had discovered in the neighborhood of St. Denis a large 
provision-store, which he entered, being enticed by the 
sign, and tempted by the display of foreign goods, col- 
ored fruits, and their silver and embossed paper, in the 
window, and shining through the mist of a crowded 
street. The store, in which he became a guest and friend, 
and which was well known to Southerners who had _ be- 
come Parisians, bore the sign, SOUTHERN PRODUCTIONS ; 
and never was there a more truthful sign. Every thing 
within was a product of the South, from the storekeepers, 


LHE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 249 


M. and Mme. Méfre, two products of Southern fat, with 
Roumestan’s arched nose, and with the blazing eyes, 
accent, manner of speaking, and demonstrative greeting, 
of the natives of Provence, which is seen even in the 
clerks, who familiarly use the “thou” in their conversa- 
tion. Without the slightest embarrassment they shout 
over the counter, with a lisp, “Say, Méfre, where have 
you put the sausage?” 

Every thing was a product of the South, even to the 
whining, dirty little Méfres, who are threatened every 
moment with being cut open, scalped, or ground to pulp, 
and who dip their fingers all the same into every open 
barrel; even to purchasers, who gesticulate and talk for 
hours, about buying pastry for two sous, or sit in a circle 
discussing the qualities of sausage with onion and sau- 
sage with pepper, and noisily exchanging aunt Portal’s 
vocabulary ; while a “dear brother” in a black dyed 
robe, a friend of the house, is trading for salt fish ; while 
a quantity of flies, preserved in this baking heat, attracted 
by the sugar on the fruits, bonbons, and almost Oriental 
pastes, are buzzing in the midst of winter. When a 
stray Parisian becomes impatient at the slow attendance 
and the absent-minded indifference of the clerks, who 
continue to talk from one desk to another while weigh- 
ing and tying up bundles, you should see how they crush 
him with their harsh accent, “ 72, v¢, if you are in a hurry, 
the door is open, and the cars pass by, as you know very 
well.” 

Among these compatriots the old man Valmajour was 
received with open arms. M. and Mme. Méfre remem- 
bered having seen him in times past at a fair at a meet- 
ing of tambourinists at Beaucaire. This fair, which now 


exists only in name, has a Masonic hold upon the old 
17 


250 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


men of the South. In our Southern provinces, it was 
the fairy extravaganza of the year, and the diversion of 
the stunted lives of the people. ‘They prepared for it a 
long time in advance, and talked of it long afterwards. 
It was promised as a reward to wives and children ; and, 
if their husbands could not take them, they would bring 
back Spanish lace or a plaything in the bottom of their 
trunks. The fair, besides, was kept open a fortnight 
under the pretence of business, and afforded for a month 
the free, joyful, and careless life of a gypsy-camp. People 
slept with this or that inhabitant, on the counters of 
stores, or in the street, in wagons covered with awnings, 
beneath the stars of a warm July night. How delightful 
was business thus carried on, without the tediousness of 
shops, and transacted while dining, and in one’s shirt- 
sleeves at doorways! <A row of booths was erected along 
the Pré on the borders of the Rhone, which in itself was 
like a fair-ground, with every kind of boat and Zzhués 
with lateen sails tossing about on their way from Arles, 
Marseilles, Barcelona, and the Balearic Isles, laden with 
wine, anchovy, cork, and oranges, and decked with ban- 
ners and streamers fluttering in the strong wind, which 
were reflected in the swiftly gliding water. ‘There was a 
noisy, motley crowd of Spaniards, Sardinians, and Greeks 
in long tunics and embroidered slippers, Armenians in fur 
caps, and Turks with their embroidered jackets, fans, and 
wide pantaloons of gray linen, thronging into the open-air 
restaurants, and displaying children’s playthings, canes, 
umbrellas, silver-work, pastilles from the seraglio, and 
caps. Whoever was once present on what was called 
“the pleasant Sunday,” or “the opening Sunday,” with 
its feasts on the wharves, in the boats and celebrated 
trattorias, at the Vignasse in the Grand Jardin, and the 
Café Thibaut, will sigh for it to the end of his life. 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 251 


People felt almost as much at their ease with the 
Méfres as at the Beaucaire fair ; and in fact the shop, in 
its picturesque disorder, resembled an improvised and 
foreign Capharnaum with the products of the South. 
There were bags of meal like golden powder, filled and 
toppling over, big chick-peas tough as leather, cooked 
chestnuts wrinkled and covered with dust and looking like 
the little faces of old wood-cutters, jars of green and black 
olives, copper bottles of sharp-tasting fruit preserved in 
oil, barrels of melon-rind preserves from Aps, — citron, 
figs, and quinces, and all the odd bits of a market which 
_are preserved in molasses. Up on the shelves among 
the salads, were preserves in a thousand kinds of bottles, 
and in a thousand boxes of tin the dainties that were a 
specialty in each town, —the cogues and darguettes from 
Nimes, almond-cake from Montélimart, and canissons 
and rusks from Aix, in gilded and labelled wrappers 
which bore the signature of the firm. In addition they 
had early fruit, an importation from Southern orchards that 
gave no shade, where the fruit grown among scant ver- 
dure is like artificial stones ; solid jujubes with a beautiful 
gloss like new mahogany, by the side of pale azeroles, 
figs of every kind, sweet lemons, green or scarlet pep- 
pers, balloon-like melons, big onions, muscadine grapes 
with long transparent seeds in which the pulp trembles 
like wine in a goatskin, branches of bananas striped with 
black and yellow, windfalls in reddish-brown oranges 
and pomegranates, and among them were found round 
lamps of red copper with the wick enclosed in a small 
crown like a crest. 

In short, everywhere on the walls and ceilings and 
both sides of the door, among dried palm-leaves twined 
together, were strings of garlic and onions, dried carobs, 


252 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


chitterlings tied together, bunches of maize, —a mass of 
warm colors representing the whole summer’s growth 
beneath a Southern sky, stored in boxes, bags, and jars, 
and shining out even on the sidewalk through the dim 
windows. 

The old man entered, eagerly sniffing, very much 
excited, and full of longing. Though, with his children, 
he grumbled at the slightest task, and when sewing on a 
button wiped his forehead for hours, boasting of having 
done “the work of a Cesar,” he was always ready in 
this place to pound with his hand, to take off his coat to 
hammer and to unfasten boxes, tasting here and there an 
olive or bonbon, and enlivening his work with monkey 
antics and stories. Once a week, on the day the codfish 
arrived, he even remained very late in the evening, to 
help send off bundles. This Southern dish, codfish with 
sauce, is seldom found excepting among the “ Products 
of the South ;” the real, white, finely cut, and creamy, 
flavored with a bit of aiez, is found at Nimes, from which 
place the Meéfres receive it. It arrives at seven o’clock 
on Thursday evening by the “ Rapide,” and is distrib- 
uted Friday morning in Paris to all the good patrons 
whose names are inscribed on the register of the house. 
It is in this business record, with crumpled pages, smell- 
ing of spices and spotted with oil, that the history of the 
conquest of: Paris by the Southerners is written. It con- 
tains the names of wealthy men and distinguished politi- 
cians, manufacturers, celebrated lawyers, deputies, min- 
isters, the president of the Chamber, and, most illustrious 
of all, that of Numa Roumestan, the Vendean of the 
South, the pillar of the throne and the church. 

But for the line on which Roumestan is written, the 
Mefres would throw the whole book into the fire ; for he 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 253 


best represents their idea of religion, politics, every thing. 
As Mme. Méfre says, who is even more charmed with 
him than is her husband, “ You know, in behalf of that 
man one would let his soul be damned.” And they like 
to remember the time when Numa, already on the way 
to glory, did not disdain to buy groceries himself. How 
well he knew how to choose a watermelon by the touch, 
‘and a sausage moist to the cut of the knife! and then 
his handsome, dignified face was so kind! He always 
had a compliment for madame, a kind word for the 
“dear brother,” and a caress for the little Méfres, who, 
carrying his bundles, accompanied him to the carriage. 
Since his elevation to the ministry, since those wretches 
the Reds had given him so much to do in the two 
chambers, they saw no more of him, fécaivé; but he 
remained the faithful patron of the Products, and he was 
always the first to be provided. 

One Thursday evening, towards ten o’clock, all the 
jars of codfish being tied up and set out in fine order on 
the desk, and all the products of the South being in 
stock, the Méfres family, the clerks, and old Valmajour, 
sweating and puffing, were resting with the self-satisfied 
air of people who have finished a hard task, and were 
dipping rusks in warm wine and orgeat sirup, and like 
cats were lapping them. They must have something . 
“mild and sweet,” for Southerners do not like any thing 
strong. With the people here, as in the country, drunk- 
enness is almost unknown. The race instinctively fear 
and abhor it. 

They are intoxicated from birth, — intoxicated without 
drinking ; and it is very true that the wind and sun dis- 
til a terrible alcohol from nature, whose effects those who 


17 


254 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


are born there more or less experience. Some have only 
this one drop too much, which makes them free in tongue 
and gestures, and see life sympathetically through a col- 
ored glass. It brightens eyes, enlarges streets, smooths 
away obstacles, increases audacity, and steadies the timid ; 
others, more affected, like little Valmajour and aunt Por- 
tal, arrive at once at the stammering, delirious stage, in 
which one’s eyes are dim and one’s limbs tremble. 

You should have seen the votive féfes of Provence ; 
the peasants standing on the table, howling and beating 
with their big yellow shoes while calling, “ Waiter, a thim- 
bleful of gazewse/’’* a whole village intoxicated over a 
few bottles of lemonade. What Southerner has not ex- 
perienced the sudden prostration of the intoxicated, the 
breaking-down of the whole being with the suddenness 
of a sunstroke or a cloud over a March sky, when his 
anger or enthusiasm was expended ? 

Without having the delirious Southern nature of his 
daughter, Valmajour was born with a streak of pride ; and 
that evening his rusk dipped in orgeat filled him with mad 
gayety, which caused him to grimace in the middle of the 
shop, with his glass in his hand and his mouth sticky, thus 
paying for his share, not by money, but by his perform- 
ances as a clown. 

The Méfres and their clerks threw themselves back, 
writhing and shaking, on the meal-bags. ‘Oh, there is 
no one like Valmajour!’’ Suddenly the spirit of the old 
man was quenched, and his puppet-gesture was cut short, 
by the appearance before him of a provincial head-dress 
shaking with rage. 

“What are you doing here, father?” 


1 Lemonade made with carbonic acid. 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 255 


Mme. Méfre threw up her arms towards the chitterlings 
on the ceiling. 

“What! is it your young lady? You did not tell us. 
Hé! how little she is! but she is a very fine girl. — Sit 
down, mademoiselle.”’ 

Through a habit of falsehood, as well as to give himself 
more liberty, the old man had not spoken of his children, 
and passed for an old bachelor living on his income ; but 
Southern people are not at a loss for an invention. If a 
whole swarm of little Valmajours had followed Audiberte, 
the reception would have been equally demonstrative and 
warm. They crowded round, and made room for her. 

“You will have a piece of rusk, too, will you not?” 

The Provencale was amazed. She had come out of 
the cold and darkness of a December night, in which the 
feverish life of Paris was carried on notwithstanding the 
hour, and became wilder in the thick fog broken every- 
where by swift shadows, the colored lanterns of omnibuses, 
and the hoarse sound of the cars. She came from the 
North and from wintry weather; and suddenly, without 
transition, found herself in the midst of the Italian Pro- 
vence, in the Méfre establishment, resplendent — as 
Christmas was near —with epicurean riches of the sun 
and soil, inthe midst of well-known accents and perfumes. 
She found again her native country, to which she had 
returned after a year of exile, struggle, and trial among 
remote barbarians. A feeling of warmth crept over her, 
and her nerves became relaxed as she dipped her biscuit 
in a thimbleful of Carthagenian wine ; and she answered 
all the good people, who were as familiar and as much 
at ease with her as if they had known her twenty years. 
She felt as if she had returned to her old life and habits ; 


256 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


and tears came to her hard eyes, which had a lurid light, 
and never wept. 

The name of Roumestan, spoken at her side, suddenly 
checked her emotion. Mme. Méfre was examining the 
addresses of the packages, and telling the boys not to 
make a mistake, and carry Numa’s codfish to the Rue de 
Grenelle, but to the Rue de Londres. 

“Tt seems that in the Rue de Grenelle codfish is not 
in good odor,” some one remarked. 

“T believe not,” said M. Méfre. “There is a lady from 
the North there, with all the Northern peculiarities, — 
butter in the cooking, dear me !—while in the Rue de 
Londres there is a pretty creature from the South, all gayety 
and songs, who has every thing cooked in oil. I under- 
stand why Numa likes to be there best.” 

They spoke lightly of this second establishment of the 
minister, which was in a small, very convenient lodging 
near the station, where he could rest after the fatigue of 
the Chamber, free from receptions and ceremonies. The 
high-toned Mme. Méfre would have made a great outcry 
if such a thing had been done in her household, only in 
the case of Numa it was natural. 

He liked young lasses ; and did not all our kings run 
after them? Did not Charles X. and the amorous Henry 
IV.? It was owing to his Bourbon nose, #, pardi. And 
with this light joking tone with which the South treats all 
love-affairs was mingled the hatred of race, and antipathy 
against the woman of the North, — the foreigner who used 
butter in cooking. They became excited, and told anec- 
dotes about the little Alice, and spoke of her charms and 
success at the Grand-Opéra. 

“IT knew mamma Bachellery in the days of the fair at 


THE PRODUCTS OF THE SOUTH. 257 


Beaucaire,” said the old man Valmajour. “She sang 
romances in the Café Thibaut.’’ 

Audiberte listened breathlessly, without losing a word, 
and fixed in her mind the name and address, her small 
eyes having a wicked glare like those of a drunkard, with 
which the Carthagenian wine had nothing to do. 


258 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE LAYETTE. 


On hearing a light tap at the door of her sleeping- 
room, Mme. Roumestan started like one caught in a 
criminal act; and, giving a push to the delicately turned 
drawer of her bureau in the Louis XV. style, before which 
she was leaning and almost kneeling, she asked, — 

“Who is there? What do you wish, Polly?” 

“A letter for madame: it is very urgent,” answered 
the English maid. 

Rosalie took the letter, and quickly closed the door. 
It was in a coarse, unfamiliar handwriting, and on poor 
paper, with the “ personal and urgent” of beggars’ peti- 
tions. A Parisian maid would never have disturbed her 
for so trifling a matter. She tossed it on the bureau, de- 
ferring the reading of it, and quickly returned to her 
drawer, which contained the wonders of the former /zy- 
ette. For eight years since the tragic event she had not 
opened it, as she feared it would bring back her tears ; 
not even now, through maternal superstition, and the fear 
of bringing herself misfortune once more, did she dare 
let her thoughts dwell too tenderly on the little zrowsseau, 
lest the unborn babe should feel her emotion. 

This brave woman had all a woman’s nervousness, and 
the tremor and quiver of a sensitive-plant. The world, 
which judges without understanding, thought her cold, 
as the ignorant imagine that flowers are not alive; but 


DHE, LAVETTE. 259 


now, her hope being of six months’ continuance, she 
must take out all these little articles from their mourn- 
ing folds and seclusion, and look at them, and perhaps 
make them over; for fashion even for new-born babes 
changes, and one does not always fasten their ribbons in 
the same way. It was for this sacred work that Rosalie 
had shut herself up in great secrecy ; and in the large 
house of the minister, which was filled with the noise and 
bustle of business, and the excited coming and going from 
the offices of the administration, of commissions and sub- 
commissions, there was certainly nothing so serious and 
moving as this woman on her knees before an open 
drawer, with beating heart and trembling hands. 

She raised the lace that had grown slightly yellow, and 
which preserved the perfume and the whiteness of inno- 
cent toilets, caps and bodices for various stages of its 
growth, and different ages, the baptismal robe, the stom- 
acher with little plaits, and the doll-like socks. She saw 
herself in her sweet languor working for hours in the 
shade of the great catalpa, whose white blossoms fell 
into the work-basket among her sewing-cotton and light 
embroidery-scissors, with all her thoughts concentrated 
on the garment she was sewing, which filled her dreams 
and her waking hours. What fancies, what hopes, were 
hers! What a joyous stir in the leaves over her head, 
and what an awakening of new and tender emotions in 
herself! Then she was harshly called back to life one 
day. As she unfolded the /ayeffe, her despair, the 
treachery of her husband, and the loss of her child, came 
back to her heart. The sight of the first little covering 
for the cradle all ready to be put on at the moment of 
birth, with its sleeves, one folded in the other, and spread 
out, and of the caps rounded out to their full size, made 


260 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


her burst into tears. It seemed to her as if her child 
had lived, and she had kissed and known him. A boy, 
certainly a boy, strong and handsome, with a milk-white 
skin, and the serious, profound eyes of his grandfather. 

He would have been eight years to-day, with long 
curly hair falling over a broad collar; and at that agea 
child still belongs to the mother, who takes it out to walk, 
dresses it prettily, and keeps it amused. 

Ah! cruel, cruel life! But gradually, as she drew out 
and handled the small articles tied with microscopic rib- 
bons, with their embroidery and snowy laces, she grew 
calm. Well, life is not so cruel; and, as long as it cone 
tinues, one must keep courage. She lost it all at that 
fatal event which changed her whole life, believing that 
it no longer remained for her to trust and love, to be a 
wife and mother, and that it only remained for her to 
watch the bright past recede like a beloved shore for 
which one sorrows. Then, after death-like years, hope 
had slowly budded under the cold snow of her heart, and 
now it was blooming again in the little one that was com- 
ing ; and Numa was so changed and kind, and cured of 
his brutal violence. There were still weaknesses in him 
which she did not like, and an Italian deceit which he 
could not rid himself of; but “it belongs to politics,” 
he used to say. She no longer had her early illusions : 
she knew that to live happily one must be contented with 

“almost” in every thing, and from the half- re an es 
which life gives must shape a full happiness. 

There was another knock at the door. M. Méiean 
wished to speak to madame. 

“Very well: I will be down presently.” 

She joined him in the small sa/on, up and down which 
he was walking in great excitement. 


THE LAVETTE. 261 


“J have a confession to make to you,” he said, in the 
familiar, almost brusque, tone that an already old friend- 
ship, not become a brotherly tie, permitted. “This 
wretched affair was ended some days; but I did not tell 
you, for I wished to keep it longer,” and he held out the 
picture of Hortense. 

“ At last! Oh how happy she will be, poor darling !” 

She felt touched at the sight of her sister’s pretty face, 
bright and sparkling with health and youth, beneath her 
provincial disguise, and read underneath the picture, in 
very fine, firm handwriting, ‘I believe in you, and love 
you. Hortense Le Quesnoy.” Then, concluding that 
this poor lover had read it also, and that he had been 
charged with a sad commission, she affectionately grasped 
his hand. 

“Thanks !” 

“Do not thank me, madame. Yes, it was hard; but 
for a week I have lived on those words: ‘/ believe in you, 
and love you.’ For the time being I imagined that they 
were addressed to me.” And then he timidly added in 
a low tone, ‘‘ How is she?” 

‘Oh! not well at all. Mamma is to take her South. 
She is willing to do whatever we wish now. Something 
like a spring seems to have broken within her.” 

“Ts she changed?” 

“Ah!” said Rosalie with an expressive gesture. 

“Au revoir, madame,” said Méjean very quickly, mov- 
ing rapidly away. At the door he turned about, and, 
straightening his stout shoulders as he stood beneath the 
partly raised hangings, said, — 

“Tt is very fortunate that I have no imagination. I 
should be too unhappy.” 

Rosalie returned to her room very sad. In vain she 


262 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


tried to overcome her sorrow, and remember her sister’s 
youth and the encouraging words of Jarras, who per- 
sisted in seeing only a crisis to be passed. Gloomy 
thoughts came to her, and did not vanish with the snowy 
brightness of the /aye/fe. She hastily gathered the little 
articles scattered about, and arranged and locked them 
up; and, as she was rising, noticed the letter on the 
bureau, took it, and mechanically read it, expecting the 
usual petition she received every day from so many dif- 
ferent hands, and which would be favorably received on 
account of a superstitious belief that charity brings hap- 
piness. That is why she did not at first understand, and 
was obliged to read again, the lines awkwardly written by 
the stiff hand of a schoolboy, Guilloche’s young man : — 

“Tf you like codfish with sauce, you will find some that 
is excellent at Mlle. Bachellery’s, Rue de Londres, this 
evening. Your husband provides it. Ring the bell three 
times, and go right in.” 

From these stupid phrases, with the insinuations under- 
lying them, the truth, aided by coincidences and recol- 
lections, arose and appeared before her, —the name of 
Bachellery, pronounced so often within a year, enigmati- 
cal conditions about her engagement, the address which 
she heard him give one day, and his long stay at Arvil- 
lard. In a second, doubt became certainty. Besides, 
did not the past throw a light on the present, in all its 
horror and reality? It had been, and was now, only false- 
hood and dissimulation ; and why had not this eternal 
maker of dupes spared her? It was she who had been 
foolish in being led by his deceitful voice and meaning- 
less tenderness ; and details were recalled which at once 
made her blush and turn pale. This time it was no 
longer the tearful despair of her first disappointments ; 


THE LAYETTE. 263 


for with it was mingled anger against herself, who had 
been so weak and cowardly as to pardon him, and against 
him who had deceived her, and disregarded his promises, 
and his vows to atone for his sin. She would have liked 
to convict him there, at once ; but he was at the Cham- 
ber at Versailles. She had an idea of calling upon Mé- 
jean, but it was distasteful to her to oblige this honest 
man to lie. And forced to stifle a flood of strong con- 
flicting feelings, in order not to cry out, and give way to 
the terrible nervous attack she felt coming on, she walked 
up and down, with her hands in a familiar pose at the 
loose waist of her dressing-gown. Suddenly she stopped, 
and started with fear. Her child! He, too, suffered, and 
recalled himself to his mother with all the strength of 
struggling life. Ah! my God, if he should die! he too, 
like the other, at the same period, and under similar cir- 
cumstances. Destiny, which they call blind, sometimes 
has very cruel combinations. She reasoned in broken 
phrases and tender exclamations,— “Dear little one ! 
poor little one!” and tried to look at matters coldly that 
she might be able to conduct herself with dignity, and 
above all not endanger the only being that remained to 
her. She even took up a piece of work, Penelope’s em- 
broidery, which always gives play to a Parisian lady’s in- 
dustry ; for she must await Numa’s return, and have an 
explanation with him, or rather convict him of his sin by 
his attitude before the inevitable exposure of a separa- 
tion. Oh! how many confidences these brilliant wools 
and this regular, colorless canvas receive, and what re- 
grets, joys, and hopes form the complicated reverse side, 
full of knots and broken threads, of this feminine work, 
in which flowers are peacefully intertwined ! 

Numa Roumestan on coming from the Chamber found 


264 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


his wife drawing her needle in and out beneath the 
narrow circle of light of a single lamp; and the quiet 
picture, the beautiful profile softened by chestnut hair in 
the shade of thick luxurious hangings, and the lacquer- 
work screens, old copper and ivory ornaments, and 
faience, receiving the mellow, flickering light of a wood- 
fire, struck him by their contrast to the hubbub in the 
Assembly, where the brightly lighted ceilings were cov- 
ered with a whirl of floating dust that rose above the 
debaters like the cloud of powder from a battle-field. 

“Good-evening, mamma. Your room seems pleas- 
ant. The session has been a warm one. It has been 
still, considering that dreadful budget ; and the Left hung 
for two hours on the coat-tails of poor Gen. d’Espaillon, 
who cannot put two ideas together without saying S—— 
LV- D D——. But the Cabinet got rid of him 
again this time; but you ought to be there to see what 
goes on after the New Year vacation, when they are occu- 
pied with fine arts. They count a great deal on the Car- 
daillac affair, as a balance to me. Ritter will speak, but 
Ritter is heavy. He has too much stomach!” Then 
with his peculiar shrug of the shoulder he went on, 
“Ritter against Roumestan, the North against the South. 
All the better. It will amuse me. He will work his own 
destruction.” 

He spoke without waiting for an answer, excited by 
business matters, and did not perceive Rosalie’s silence. 
He seated himself on a cushion at her side, pulled away 
her work, and tried to kiss her hand. “Is your embroid- 
ering very urgent? Is it for my Christmas present? I 
have already bought yours. Guess what it is.” 

She slowly drew away, and looked at him fixedly to 
embarrass him, and did not answer. His features looked 








LT EUPIA AD ITE De 265 


drawn and weary as usual, after an important session, and 
his face showed lassitude, betraying in the corner of his 
mouth and eyes a nature at once weak and violent, with 
all the passions and nothing to resist them. Faces in the 
South are like its landscapes, and should be seen only in 
sunlight. 

“ Are you to dine with me?” asked Rosalie. 

“Why, no. They are expecting me at Durand’s. A 
tiresome dinner. 7¢?, I am already late,” he added, ris- 
ing. ‘Fortunately they do not dress there.” 

His wife’s eyes followed him. “ Dine with me, I beg 
you,” she said ; and her musical voice grew hard as she 
urged him, and became threatening and implacable. 
But Roumestan did not observe it. ‘ Then, business 
must always be thought of first, must it not? Ah! a 
public man cannot lead the life he wishes.” 

“ Farewell, then,” she said gravely; “since it is our 
destiny,” she added to herself. 

She heard the cowfé roll away under the arch, and 
after carefully folding her work she rang. “A carriage, a 
hack at once. And you, Polly, bring my cloak and my 
hat: I am going out.” Dressing herself quickly, she 
looked around the room which she was leaving, and 
where she regretted nothing, and left nothing of herself. 
It was the room of a furnished hired house, with its pom- 
pous, cold, yellow brocade. “Carry this large box 
down to the carriage.”” It was the /aye/te, the only arti- 
cle which belonged to them in common, that she took. 
At the door of the hack, the English maid, who was 
greatly puzzled, asked if madame did not intend to dine. 
No: she would dine at her father’s, and probably sleep 
there also. 

18 


266 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


On the road she was suddenly filled with doubt, or 
rather hesitation. What if there were no truth in it all? 
What if that Bachellery did not live in the Rue de Lon- 
dres! She gave the address without much expectation of 
verifying it; but she must make certain. 

They stopped at a little hotel of two stories, surmounted 
by a terrace with a winter-garden, the former lodging of 
a Levantine from Cairo who had just died a bankrupt. 
It was a small house, with closed blinds and lowered cur- 
tains, and with strong odors from the kitchen ascending 
from its noisy and lighted basement. The mere manner 
in which the door obeyed the three rings, and turned of 
itself on its hinges, enlightened Rosalie. Through the 
Persian drapery relieved by twisted fringe, in the middle 
of the ante-chamber, she had a view of the staircase with 
its velvety carpet, and the candelabrum from which the 
gas was streaming up at full blaze. She heard laughter, 
took two steps forward, and saw what she never after- 
wards forgot. 

On the landing of the first story, Numa, in his shirt- 
sleeves, was leaning over the railing, with a red, excited 
face, holding that girl by the waist, whose appearance 
was also very singular, with her hair down her back over 
the ruffles and fluting of a rose-colored foulard désha- 
bille. And he was shouting with his hurried accent, 
“ Bompard, bring up the codfish!” It was there that the 
Minister of Public Instruction and of Art and Moral 
Culture, the great merchant of religion and morals, the 
defender of holy doctrines, ought to have been seen ; for 
there he showed himself without a mask and pretence, 
at his ease and in ég/igé as at the fair at Beaucaire, with 
all his Southern nature showing on the surface. 


TEEPE IGA VOL ees 267 


“<Bompard, bring up the codfish!’’’ repeated the 
little jade, purposely exaggerating his Marseillaise intona- 
tion. Bompard, no doubt the improvised kitchen drudge, 
was coming up from the pantry, with a napkin around 
his neck, and his arms around a large dish, which made 
the heavy door slam behind him. 


268 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


CHAPTER XIX. 
THE FIRSE OF THE YEAR. 


“‘ GENTLEMEN of the Central Administration ! 

“Gentlemen Directors of the Fine Arts! 

“Gentlemen of the Academy of Medicine !” 

As the usher, who was dressed in great style, in small- 
clothes and with a sword at his side, made this annuunce- 
ment in a dull voice, in the solemn reception-room, a 
line of black coats crossed the large red-and-gold sa/on, 
and ranged themselves in a semicircle before the minis- 
ter, who stood with his back to the mantle-piece, having 
near him his sub-secretary of state M. de la Calmette, 
his chief of cabinet, his dashing aéfachés, and a few 
directors of the ministry, Dansaert and Béchut. To each 
constituent body presented by his president or a senior 
member, his Excellency addressed compliments about 
the decorations and academical honors awarded to a few 
members; then the constituent body made a demi-tour, 
and yielded their place, retiring as others hastily entered, 
letting the door swing behind them, for it was an hour 
late, and each man was thinking of the family meal 
awaiting him. 

In the concert-room, which was transformed into a 
cloak-room, groups of people were moving around, impa- 
tiently looking at their watches, buttoning their gloves, 
adjusting their white cravats under their drawn faces, and 
yawning from evzw?, ill-humor, and hunger. 


THE FIRST OF THE YEAR. 269 


Roumestan also felt the fatigue of this great day. He 
had lost his fine ardor of last year at this time, and his 
faith in the future and reforms, and toned his speeches, 
chilled to his bones with the cold, in spite of the fur- 
naces and the large blazing pile of wood ; and the snow- 
flakes dancing on the window-panes fell light and icy on 
his heart as on the lawn in the garden. 

“Gentlemen of the Comédie-Frangaise !”” 

These closely-shaven, solemn men, who saluted as in 
the grand century, stood in noble attitudes around their 
leader, who in a hollow voice presented the Com any, 
and spoke of the efforts and the wishes of the Comyany, 
—the Company without any title or qualification, as we 
say God and Bible, —as if there were no other company 
in the world. Poor Roumestan must indeed be greatly 
dejected ; for not even this Company, to which he, with 
his blue chin, pig’s cheeks, and poses which he studied 
to make distinguished, seemed to belong, to arouse him 
to eloquence and grand dramatic sentences. For a week 
after Rosalie’s departure, he had been like a player who 
has lost his charm. He was afraid, and suddenly felt infe- 
rior to his fortune, and as if he were to be overwhelmed. 
Mediocre persons whom chance has favored have these 
spells and vertigos, which were increased in him by the 
frightful scandal that was about to break out, and the suit 
for separation, which Mme. Roumestan absolutely wished 
in spite of letters, advances, coaxing, prayers, and vows. 
For form’s sake, people at the ministry said that she had 
gone to live with her father on account of the near 
departure of Mme. Le Quesnoy and Hortense ; but no 
one was deceived, and on every face moving past him, 
and from certain meaning smiles and too much hand- 
ee unhappy man saw his adventure reflected in 


270 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


the pity, curiosity, and irony of others. There was no 
one, even to the humblest clerks who had come to the 
reception in a jacket and long coat, who was not in- 
formed of it: it circulated in the office in couplets 
where Chambéry rhymed with Bachellery, which more 
than one copying-clerk, who was discontented with his 
pay, hummed to himself while making an humble bow to 
the supreme chief. 

Two o’clock, and the constituent bodies are still pre- 
senting themselves, and the snow is piling up, while the 
usher announces irregularly, — 

“Gentlemen of the School of the Right ! 

“Gentlemen of the Conservatory of Music ! 

“Gentlemen Directors of Theatres of Relief!” 

Cardaillac came at the head, on account of the ancient 
date of his three failures ; and Roumestan had a greater 
desire to let his blows fall upon this cynical showman, 
whose nomination caused him such grave embarrass- 
ment, than to listen to his fine speech, that was belied by 
his fierce, pretentious look, and to answer him with a 
forced compliment, half of which fell in his starched 
cravat: “Very much touched, gentlemen, m2 mn mn; 
progress of art, 2 mn mn; we will do better still.” 
And the showman said as he went away, “Our poor 
Numa’s wings are leaden.” 

When these men had left, the minister and his assist- 
ants did honor to the customary collation; but this 
lunch, which was so gay and demonstrative the preced- 
ing year, felt the sadness of the patron and the ill-humor 
of his intimate associates, all of whom were a little angry 
with him because of their compromised situation. This 
scandalous lawsuit, coming just in the midst of the Car- 
daillac debate, would render Roumestan of no value to 


THE FIRST OF THE YEAR. 27 


the cabinet. That very morning, at the reception at the 
Elysée, the marshal said two words in the rude laconic 
eloquence of an old trooper, — 

“ Dirty business, my dear minister, dirty business !” 
And, without precisely knowing the word the distin- 
guished person whispered in an embrasure, these gentle- 
men saw their disgrace coming behind that of their chief. 

“Q women, women!” muttered the savan¢ Béchut in 
his plate. M. de la Calmette, after his thirty years of 
office, grew melancholy as he thought of his Tircis-like 
retreat ; and the great Lappara amused himself in putting 
Rochemaure in consternation. 

“Viscount, we must provide for ourselves. We shall 
be ousted before a week.” 

Upon a toast from the minister to the New Year and 
his dear co-laborers, given in a voice full of feeling, with 
a tone as if tears were falling, they separated. Méjean 
remained last, took two or three turns up and down with 
his friend, although they had not the courage to say a 
word, then left. In spite of his desire to keep near 
him on this day, the upright nature which intimidated 
him like a reproach of his conscience, but sustained and 
re-assured him, Numa could not prevent Méjean from 
running about to make calls, and offer wishes and pres- 
ents, any more than he could forbid his usher to go home 
to his family, and unharness from his sword and short 
breeches. 

What solitude, like a Sunday in a factory when the 
machinery is still, pervaded the ministry! In every room 
up stairs and down, in his office, where he tried in vain 
to write, and in his room, which was filled with his sobs, 
everywhere the light January snow whirled at the large 
windows, veiled the horizon, and made more intense a 


272 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


silence like that of the steppes. Oh the pain and penal- 
ties of greatness! <A clock struck four, another answered, 
and others still, in the desert of a vast palace, where it 
seemed as if every thing but time was dead and motion- 
less. The idea of staying there until evening in a ¢é¢e-a- 
#éfe with his chagrin frightened him. He would have 
liked to thaw in the warmth of a little friendship and 
tenderness. So many furnaces and mouths of heat with 
one-half of a tree in a state of combustion did not make 
a fireside. For a moment he thought of the Rue de 
Londres. But he had sworn to his attorney (for the 
attorneys were already on the case) to keep quiet until 
after the lawsuit. Suddenly a name came into his mind. 

“Bompard! Why had he not come?” 

Ordinarily on festival mornings he came first, with his 
arms full of bouquets and bags of bonbons for Kosalie, 
Hortense, and Mme. Le Quesnoy, and with the expres- 
sive smile on his lips of a good grandpapa who brings 
Christmas presents. Roumestan of course bore the ex- 
pense of these surprises, but the friend Bompard had 
imagination enough to forget it; and Rosalie, notwith- 
standing her antipathy, could not help growing tender 
when she thought of the privations the poor fellow must 
impose upon himself to be so generous. 

“Tf I should go for him, we could dine together.” 

He was reduced to this; and regardless of his black 
coat, his decorations and orders, went out on foot by the 
Rue Bellechasse. 

The wharves and bridges were white ; but after cross- 
ing the Carrousel, neither the ground nor air preservea a 
trace of snow. It disappeared under the heavy travel of 
the thoroughfare, in the swarming crowd on the sidewalks, 
at store-windows, and around omnibus offices. This 


THE LIRST OR THE, VEAK. 273 


tumult of a holiday evening, with the cries of coachmen, 
and the calls of street-pedlers, in the confusion and the 
glare from the windows, the lilac lights of the Jablochkoff 
overpowering the yellow twinkling of the gas and the 
last gleams of pale daylight, lulled Roumestan’s chagrin, 
which was diverted by the bustle of the street, as he went 
to the Boulevard Poissonniére, where the former Tcher- 
kess2, who was very sedentary, like al! imaginative per- 
sons, kad lived for twenty years, ever since his arrival in 
Paris. 

No one was acquainted with the interior of Bompard’s 
house, of which, however, he talked a great deal, as well 
as of his garden, and o¢ his artistic furniture, to purchase 
which he attended all the sales of the Hotel Drouot. 

“Come some morning, and eat a cutlet with me,” was 
his regular invitation which he gave right and left. If 
any one accepted it, however, he would run against por- 
ters, see bells wrapped in paper or without any wire, and 
find no one at home. Fora year Lappara and Roche- 
maure had tried in vain to make their way into Bom- 
pard’s house, and to circumvent the extraordinary inven- 
tions of the Provengal, who defended the mystery of his 
lodgings, even to loosening the bricks at the entrance, 
that he might say to his friends through the barricade, 
“Very sorry, my good friends. An escape of gas. It 
sprung a leak last night.” 

After mounting countless stories, wandering through 
spacious passages, stumbling against invisible steps, and 
disturbing the reveries of chambermaids in their rooms, 
Roumestan, out of breath from the climbing to which 
his distinguished limbs were not accustomed since he 
had become a man of leisure, suddenly hit against a 
great wash-basin hanging on the wall. 


274 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Who is there?” lisped a voice with a well-known 
accent. 

The door, weighted by a row of pegs on which hung 
the whole winter and summer wardrobe of the occupant, 
turned slowly ; for the room was small, and Bompard, in 
order not to lose an inch of space, was forced to convert 
the entry into a dressing-room. His friend found him 
lying on a small iron bed, with his forehead decked with 
a scarlet headgear, and a kind of Dantesque coif, which 
stood up with astonishment at sight of the illustrious 
visitor. 

“Tt cannot be you!” 

“ Are you ill?”’ asked Roumestan. 

‘Nl? > Lcamenever all.” 

“Then, what are you doing there?” 

“You see, I am collecting myself.” To explain, he 
added, “I have so many projects and inventions in my 
head, that at times my wits are scattered and become lost, 
and I can find them again only when in bed.” 

Roumestan looked for a chair ; but there was only one, 
which served as a night-table, and was laden with backs, 
papers, and a toppling candle. Therefore he seated him- 
self at the foot of the bed. 

“ Why have we not seen you lately?” he asked. 

“Vou are jesting. After what happened I could not 
meet your wife again. Consider, I stood there before her 
holding the codfish. It required all my self-possession 
not to let it fall.” 

“ Rosalie is no longer at the ministry,” said Numa 
sadly. 

“Then you have not become reconciled? You aston- 
ish me.” It did not seem to him possible on the part of 
Mme. Numa, a person of such good sense ; for, after all, it 
only amounted to a mere fancy. 


IGGIE AMOSTO LONE, D2 OE Noe 275 


“You Jo not know her,” said Numa, interrupting him. 
“She is a relentless woman, —the perfect image of her 
father and of the Northern race, my dear fellow. She is 
not like us, among whom the greatest anger evaporates in 
gestures and threats, and then in the turn of a hand leaves 
us. They retain it! It is terrible!” 

He did not tell him that she had already forgiven once. 
To escape his sad thoughts he said, “Get up and dress 
yourself. I have come to take you to dine with me.” 

While Bompard was proceeding with his toilet on the 
landing, the minister inspected the attic-room lighted by 
a small window like a snuff-box, from which dripped the 
melting snow. He was filled with pity at the barrenness 
of the room, the damp plastering, faded paper, and a 
little rusty stove without a fire notwithstanding the cold 
season ; and, accustomed to the comfort and luxury of 
his palace, he wondered how any one could live there. 

“ Have you seen the garden?” cried Bompard joyously 
from his wash-basin. 

The garden was the leafless top of three plane-trees, 
wnich could be seen only by climbing on the one chair 
of the lodging-room. 

* And my little museum?” 

This was the term he applied to several labelled articles 
on a plank, —a brick, a short pipe, a rusty blade, and 
an ostrich’s egg. But the brick came from the Alhambra ; 
the knife was used to execute the vengeance of a famous 
Corsican bandit; the short pipe bore the inscription, 
“Pipe of a convict from Morocco ;” and, finally, the 
hardened egg represented the failure of a beautiful dream, 
all that remained — besides a few laths and pieces of cast- 
iron piled up in a corner — of the Bompard incubator. 

“Oh! I now have something better than that, my good 


276 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


fellow, —a wonderful idea, and there are millions in it; 
but I cannot say any thing about it at present. What are 
you looking at? ‘That? it is my brevet as major. Beé, 
yes, major of the Azo/.” The purpose of this society 
of the Azo/ was to assemble once a month all the South- 
erners residing in Paris to eat dishes cooked with garlic, 
that they might not lose the flavor and accent or their 
native place. The organization was a powerful one, com- 
prising an honorary president, presidents, vice-presidents, 
majors, questors, censors, and treasurers, all brevetted on 
pink paper with silver bands, with a garlic-blossom in a 
pompon. This precious document was displayed on the 
wall by the side of announcements of every color, sales of 
houses, and railroad advertisements, which Bompard liked 
to have under his eyes, “to stimulate his imagination,” 
he said ingenuously. One read on the wall, “Castle for 
sale, one hundred and fifty hectares, meadows, hunting- 
grounds, a river, and fish-pond;” “ Pretty little estate in 
Touraine, with vineyards, the sainfoin plant, and a mill 
on the Cize;” “A journey through Switzerland, Italy, 
Lake Maggiore, and the Borromean Isles.” It exalted 
him as much as if there were real landscapes hung cn the 
wall. In imagination he lived in these places. 

“You rascal!” said Roumestan with a shade of envy 
of this wretched visionary who was so happy among his 
old trash. “You have a strong imagination. Come, are 
you ready? Let us go down: it is icy cold in your 
rooms.” 

After a few turns in the light and the gay bustle of the 
boulevard, the friends found themselves in the cheering, 
pleasant warmth of a large restaurant, before oysters on 
the shell and a bottle of Chdéeau- Yguem carefully un- 
corked. 


THE FIRST OF THE YEAR. 277 


“To your health, comrade. I wish you health and 
happiness.” 

“ Té, really,” said Bompard: ‘we haven’t embraced 
yet.” 

With moist eyes they embraced across the table; and, 
however tanned the leather-skinned Tcherkesse, Roume- 
stan felt cheered in his company. Ever since the morning 
he longed to embrace some one. ‘Then they had known 
each other so long; and thirty years of their life arose in 
their memory as they sat at the table. The odor of deli- 
cate dishes and costly wines brought before them the days 
of their youth, fraternal memories, excursions and games 
in which they saw again their youthful faces; and they 
interspersed their confiding words with a fatois which 
made them feel even nearer to each other. 

“Ten souvénes, digo? Say, don’t you remember?” 

In a parlor near by, clear ringing laughter and faint 
screams were heard. 

“To the devil with the women!” said Roumestan : 
“there is nothing like friendship ;” and they drank this 
time to friendship. But the conversation took another 
turn. 

“What has become of the little one?” asked Bompard, 
with a twinkle in his eye. ‘‘ How is she?” 

“Oh! I have not seen her since that time, you know.” 

“Of course, of course,” said Bompard, suddenly be- 
coming very grave with an expression assumed for the 
occasion. 

Some one behind the drapery was now heard playing 
on the piano fragments of waltzes, fashionable quadrilles, 
and measures of operas, which by turn were lively and 
sad. The friends ceased talking in order to listen, while 
picking grapes from their stems; and Numa, with whom 


278 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


every feeling seemed to be ona pivot, and to have two 
faces, began to think of his wife and caild, and 1is lost 
happiness, and, leaning on his elbows, opered his heart 
to his friend. 

“Eleven years of confidence and affection destroyed 
and vanished in a moment! Is it possible? O Rosalie, 
Rosalie !” 

No one could know what she had been to him, and 
even he understood it only after she left him. She had 
such an upright mind and honest heart, and her shoulders 
and arms were so beautiful! She was not a doll stuffed 
with sawdust, like the little one. Her figure was well 
rounded, and her skin delicate and transparent as amber. 
«But you see, comrade, there is no doubt that when one 
is young one needs surprises and adventures, — hasty 
rendezvous made more exciting by the fear of being 
discovered, stairs descended four at a time, with one’s 
clothing over one’s arm, for all this belongs to love ; but 
at our age what one desires most of all is peace, which 
philosophers call security in pleasure, and only marriage 
gives it.” 

He rose with a start, threw down his napkin, and said, 
“Come, let us be off.” 

“Where are we going?” asked Bompard passively. 

“To walk under her window as we did eleven years 
ago. ‘This is what the great Master of the University has 
come to, my dear fellow.” 

The friends walked a long while under the arches of 
the Place Royale, where the garden covered ‘with snow 
formed a square of white between the fences; and, as 
they walked, they looked searchingly at the jagged Louis 
XIII. roofs, chimneys, balconies, and tall windows of the 
hotel Le Quesnoy. 


THE FIRST OF THE YEAF. 279 


” 


“To think she is there so near, 
“and I cannot see her!” 

Bompard, with his feet in the mud, shivered, and could 
not understand this sentimental excursion. To bring it 
to an end he used artifice ; and, knowing that Roumestan 
was tender, and fearful of the slightest illness, he said 
treacherously and insinuatingly, — 

“ou will get cold, Numa.” 

The Southerner was frightened, and they returned to 
cheir carriage. 

She was there in the parlor where he first saw her, and 
where the same furniture, having reached that age when, 
like temperaments, it cannot be made over, remained in 
the very same positions. There were only a few faded 
wriukles in the tawny hangings, and a dimness on the 
mirrors like that on deserted ponds which nothing has 
disturbed ; and the faces of the aged parents bowed 
beneath the gas-jets, and in the company of their usual 
partners, Icoked even more worn. Mme. Le Quesnoy’s 
features were swollen and drawn down as if the muscles 
were weakened ; and the president, with the same proud, 
rebellious look in his hard blue eyes, looked even paler 
than of old. Rosalie, seated near an arm-chair whose 
cushions still bore the impress of the form of her sister, 
who had just retired for the night, and to whom she had 
been reading aloud, continued the reading to herself in 
the silence of the whist-table, which was broken only by 
an occasional word or exclamation from the players. 

It was a book she was fond of in her youth, by one of 
those natural poets whom her father had taught her to 
love ; and from the blank verses her girlhood, and the 
fresl, strong impressions of her early reading, rose before 
her. 


sighed Roumestan, 


280 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“Far, far from here, and free of pain, 
The belle, with happy rustic swain, 
Perhaps had sought some limpid spring, 
And plucked its berries, hand in hand, 
Though there she lost at love’s command 
Her heart, less sorrow would it bring.” 


The book fell from her hands to her knees; the last 
verses echoing like a sad song in the depths of her being, 
and reminding her of troubles forgotten for a moment. 
Such is the cruelty of poets. They soothe and calm, 
then with a word pierce the wound they were about to 
heal. She saw herself in her home as eleven years ago, 
when Numa was paying court to her, and bringing her 
bouquets, when in all the charm of her twentieth year she 
adorned herself to be beautiful in his eyes, and watched 
him from the window as he came, as one watches her 
destiny approach. 

In. every corner there were echoes of his cheerful and 
tender voice, which was so ready to deceive. Cn looking 
over the music scattered on the piano, one might have 
found the duets which they used to sing together: every 
thing zround her seemed an accomplice in the shipwreck 
of her ruined life. She thought of what she might have 
been, and of the life she might have led by the side of 
an honest man and loyal companion. If it were not a 
brilliant or ambitious, it would have been a simple. re- 
tired one, in which they might have bravely borne to- 
gether every sorrow until death. She became so absorbed 
in her dream, that when the game of whist was over, and 
the intimate guests had gone almost without her noticing 
it, and she had mechanically answered the friendly, pity- 
ing “ Good-night” of each, she did not verceive that the 
president, instead of escorting his friends as was his 


THE FIRST OF THE YEAR. 281 


habit every evening, whatever the season or weather, was 
striding up and down the parlor. He finally stopped 
before her, and asked in a voice which made her start, — 

“Well, my child, what do you think? What have you 
decided upon?” 

“ My resolution is unchanged, father.” 

M. Le Quesnoy seated himself near her, took her 
hand, and tried to persuade her. 

“T have seen your husband. He consents to every 
thing. You will live here near me during the absence of 
your mother and sister, and even after their return if 
your resentment still continues. But I repeat, the law- 
suit is impossible. I hope that you will not attempt it.” 

Rosalie shook her head. 

“You do not know that man, father. He will employ 
all his astuteness to entrap and capture me, and to make 
me his voluntary dupe, accepting humiliation and loss of 
dignity. Your daughter is not that kind of a woman. I 
desire that the rupture shall be final and irreparable, and 
openly announced to the whole world.” 

Mme. Le Quesnoy, from the table where she was ar- 
ranging cards and counters, gently interposing, without 
turning round said, “ Forgive, my child, forgive.” 

“Yes, that is easy to say when one has a loyal, upright 
husband, like yours, and when one has not known the 
dejection caused by the falsehood and treachery woven 
around one. He is a hypocrite, I tell you. He has one 
kind of morals for Chambéry, and another for the Rue de 
Londres. His words and acts always disagree. He is 
two-faced, and has two ways of talking, and has all the 
feline, seductive traits of his race. In short, he is a man 
of the South.” And, forgetting herself in her angry out- 


burst, she went on: “ Besides, I have already forgiven 
19 


282 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


him once. Yes, two years after my marriage. I did not 
tell you, because I spoke of it to no one. I was made 
very unhappy. Then we remained together only on ac- 
count of his oath. His life is nothing but perjury. Now 
it is over forever.” 

The president insisted no longer, rose slowly, and 
spoke to his wife. There was whispering and a discus- 
sion, surprising between the authoritative man and the 
humble, completely subdued creature. ‘You must tell 
her, — yes, yes, you must. I wish you to tell her;” and 
without adding another word, M. Le Quesnoy left the 
room, and the sound of his usual regular, ringing step 
ascended from the deserted arcades, and was heard in 
the large, solemn parlor. 

“ Come here,” said the mother to her daughter, with a 
gesture of tenderness. ‘ Nearer, nearer still.” 

She would not have dared to say it quite aloud. And 
even as near as they were, heart against heart, she still 
hesitated. 

“Listen: it is he who wishes it. He wishes that I 
should tell you that your destiny is that of every woman, 
and that your mother did not escape it.” 

Rosalie was alarmed at this confidence, which she 
divined at the first words; while a dear aged voice, 
broken with sobs, could hardly articulate a very sad story 
—§in every point resembling her own —of the infidelity 
of her husband from the very beginning of housekeeping, 
as if with poor united beings who had for their motto, 
“Deceive me, or I deceive you,” the husband was eager 
to begin first, in order to keep up the superiority of his 
rank. 

“Oh! enough, enough, mamma! You make me ill.” 

Her father, whom she admired so much, and placed 


THE FIRST OF THE YEAR. 283 


above all men! the firm, upright magistrate! Were men, 
both in the North and the South, all traitors and per- 
jurers? Though she wept not for the treachery of her 
husband, she shed a flood of burning tears at the humili- 
ation of her father. They expected in this way to make 
her waver. No! a hundred times no! she would not 
forgive. Ah! such was marriage. Well, shame and scorn 
upon marriage. What mattered the fear of scandal and 
worldly proprieties, since every one was trying to see who 
could best defy them ? 

Her mother took her, and pressed her to her heart, to 
soften the rebellion of her young conscience, which was 
wounded in its faith and in its dearest beliefs ; and she 
softly caressed her as one rocks an infant. 

“Yes, you will forgive. You will do as I have done. 
It is our lot, you know. Ah! in the first moment I, too, 
felt great sorrow and a desire to throw myself out of the 
window. But I thought of my child, of my poor little 
André, who was to be born, and who grew up and died 
loving and respecting his family. You also will forgive, 
in order that your child may have the happiness and 
peace which my courage gave you, and may not be one 
of those half-orphars who are claimed first by one then 
by the other parent, and are brought up by one to hate 
and to feel contempt for the other. You will also remem- 
ber that your father and mother have greatly suffered, 
and that new despair threatens them.” 

She stopped, overcome; then solemnly continued, 
“My daughter, every sorrow is appeased, and every 
wound can be healed. The death of those one loves is 
the only irreparable misfortune.” 

In the exhaustion which followed these words, her 
mother’s face seemed to Rosalie to have gained in char- 


284 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


acter what her father’s had lost in her eyes. She was 
vexed with herself for having so long been blind to the 
expression of sublime self-renunciation and resignation 
beneath the apparent weakness caused by many sorrowful 
blows. ‘Therefore it was for her sake, only for her sake, 
that in gentle, almost forgiving words she abandoned her 
intention of avenging herself by a lawsuit. “Only do 
not insist on my returning to him. That would cause me 
too much shame. I will accompany my sister South. 
Afterwards we will see.” 

The president now came in. He saw the mother 
throwing her arms around the neck of her child, and 
understood that their cause was won. But at the cost of 
what a sacrifice ! 

“Thank you, my daughter,” he murmured, deeply 
touched. Then, after hesitating a moment, he approached 
Rosalie for the customary good-night. But the forehead 
usually offered so tenderly was held back, and the kiss 
fell on her hair. 

“ Good-night, father.” 

He said nothing, but walked away with a bowed head 
and a convulsive shudder of his high shoulders. He who 
had accused and condemned so many, he the first me- 
gistrate in France, was now judged in his turn. 


” 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 285 


CHAPTER XX, 
HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 


THROUGH one of those sudden changes of scene so 
frequent in a parliamentary comedy, the sitting of the 
8th of January, when Roumestan’s fortunes seemed to be 
declining, was equivalent to a brilliant triumph. When 
he ascended the platform to answer the sharp satire 
of Rougeot about the management of the Opéra, the 
wretched work made of fine arts, and the feebleness of 
the reforms boastingly proclaimed by the supernumeraries 
of the sacristan ministry, Numa had just heard that his 
wife had left, having given up the lawsuit; and this good 
news, which was known to him alone, gave a bright 
assurance to his reply. He was haughty, free, and im- 
pressive, and referred to the calumnies whispered about, 
and to the expected scandal, — 

“There will be no scandal, gentlemen,” he said. And 
the tone in which he said this caused a lively disappoint- 
ment among the fair and curious wearers of the toilets 
which overflowed the boxes as if they were longing for 
some great excitement, and had come there to see the 
conqueror conquered. Ritter’s speech was annihilated : 
the South captured the North. Gaul was once more 
conquered. When Roumestan stepped from the _plat- 
form bathed with perspiration, speechless, and feeling as 
if he had been ground in the mill, it pleased his pride to 
have his party, very cold and almost hostile a moment 

19 


286 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


ago, and his colleagues in the cabinet who had accused 
him of compromising them, surround him with praise 
and enthusiastic flattery. And in the intoxication of 
success, his wife’s withdrawal of her suit constantly re- 
curred to him as a final deliverance. 

His mind was relieved of a burden: his thoughts 
became collected, and his mood communicative, so that 
when returning to Paris the idea came to him to call at 
Rue de Londres. Oh, only as a friend! to re-assure that 
poor child, who was as anxious as he about the result of 
the speech, and who bore their mutual exile with so much 
courage, and sent him in her simple writing, dried with 
rice-powder, kind littie letters in which she related her 
daily life, and exhorted him to patience and prudence, — 

“No, no, do not come, poor dear! Write me, and 
think of me. I shall be strong.” 

There was no performance at the Opéra that evening ; 
and during the short journey from the station to the Rue 
de Londres, while clasping in his hand the little key 
which had tempted him more than once within a fort- 
night, Numa thought to himself, — 

“ How happy she will be!” 

The door opened and closed noiselessly ; and he sud- 
denly found himself in the darkness, as the gas had not 
been lighted. This neglect gave the house an appear- 
ance of mourning and widowhood, which flattered him. 
The stair-carpet deadening the sound of his rapid step, 
unannounced he entered the parlor hung with Japanese 
curtains of delightfully unnatural shades for the benefit 
of the artificial gold of the little one’s hair. 

“Who is there?” asked a soft but angry voice from 
the lounge. 

“Tt is I, paras.” 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 287 


There was a cry, and a spring ; and in the dim twilight 
there was a flutter of white petticoats, and the singer 
stood up in terror, while the handsome Lappara, motion- 
less and confused, without even the strength to rally from 
his embarrassed position, fixed his eyes on the flowers on 
the carpet in order not to look at the patron. Their guilt 
was proved. 

“ Canaille/” gasped Roumestan, choked with that 
kind of fury in which the wild beast roars within the man, 
making him long to tear and bite rather than strike. 

He found himself out of doors, hardly knowing how, 
carried away by the fear of his own violence. At the 
same place and at the same hour, a few days before, his 
wife like himself had received this blow of treachery, and 
was wounded by a low insult as cruel and unmerited as 
his; but he did not think of it a moment, being filled 
with indignation at the personal injury. Never under 
the sun had such villany been known! This Lappara 
whom he loved as a son, and that jade for whom he had 
sacrificed even his political fortune ! 

“ Canaille, canaille!” he repeated aloud in the de- 
serted street, in a fine penetrating rain, which, more than 
the best reasoning, calmed him. 

* Té, but I am wet to the skin!” 

He ran to the carriage-stand in the Rue Amsterdam, 
and, in the crowd made in that district by the constant 
arrivals from the station, ran into the stiff shirt-bosom of 
the General and Marquis d’Espaillon. 

“ Bravo, my dear colleague! I was not at the session ; 
but they told me that you charged like a 6 through 
the line and with ail your forces.” The old man, who 
held his umbrella as straight as a lath, had the glaring eye 
of a demon and the curled beard of a lady-killer. 





288 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 











“NV. a D /” he added, leaning over, and 
speaking into Numa’s ear in a tone of light confidence. 
“You are the one to boast of knowing something about 
women.” 

And as Numa looked at him, believing him to be sar- 
castic, he added, — 

“Well, you remember our discussion about love? You 
were right, — only curled darlings can please the fair ones. 
I have one now. I was never before entrapped, 7- 
n a. D—/! not even when_I left school at 
twenty-five.” 

Roumestan, who was listening with his hand on the 
door of the hack, tried to smile on the old libertine, but 
made only a frightful grimace. His theories about women 
were so strangely upset! ‘They do not seek in a lover 
glory and genius. He felt dumbfounded and disgusted, 
and longed to weep, then to sleep that he might think no 
more, and, above all, no longer see the stupid smile of 
that wretch who stood straight before him convicted and 
thrilled by the interrupted kiss. But in our days of 
trouble the hours stand still, or toss about like the waves. 
Instead of the pleasant rest which he expected to find on 
returning home, a new blow awaited him in a despatch, 
which Méjean had opened in his absence, and now held 
out to him with great emotion. 











Flortense is dying. She wishes to see you. Come at once. 
AUNT PORTAL. 


All his frightful selfishness was expressed in a desoiaze 
cry : “I shall lose true devotion in her.” Then ke thought 
of his wife present in the dying hour, and aliowing aunt 
Portal to sign the despatch. Her rancor did not give 
way, and probably would not. If she were willing, how- 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 289 


ever, how gladly, cured of his imprudent follies, he would 
have begun over again at her side an honest, family, al- 
most austere life! And, no longer thinking of the trouble 
he had caused, he reproached her for her severity, as if 
it were an injustice. He spent the night in correcting 
the proofs of his speech, stopping to write draughts of 
furious or ironical and scolding, hissing letters to that 
wretch of an Alice Bachellery. Méjean was also sitting 
up late in the secretary’s office, a prey to sorrow, and 
seeking forgetfulness in desperate work; and Numa, 
tempted by his being near, felt it a real torture not to be 
able to confide his disappointment to him. But he would 
have had to confess that he returned to Alice and the 
ridiculous 7é/e he played. 

He did not continue iu it, however ; and in the morn- 
ing, when the chief of his cabinet accompanied him to 
the station, he gave him, among other instructions, the 
charge of dismissing Lappara. “Oh! he expects it. I 
caught him in an act that proved the blackest ingratitude. 
And to think how kind I was, even to try to make” — 
He stopped short. He came near telling the lover that 
he had twice promised the hand of Hortense. Without 
further explanation he declared that he did not again wish 
to meet so sadly immoral a person at the ministry. Be- 
sides, the duplicity of the world sickened him. Ingrati- 
tude and selfishness ! it was enough to make him give up 
honors, business, and every thing, and leave Paris, and be 
the keeper of a light-house on some wild rock in the broad 
ocean, 

“ You have slept poorly, my dear patron,” said Méjean 
in his quiet way. 

“No, no! it is just as I tell you: Paris gives me a 
nausea.” 


290 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


As he stood on the steps when departing, he turned 
round with a motion of disgust, and looked at the great 
city into which the provinces pour their ambitious and 
money-loving population, their boiling, uncleanly overflow, 
who accuse it afterwards of waywardness and corruption. 
He paused, overcome with a fit of bitter laughter. 

“Do you think that fellow will pursue me everywhere ?”” 

At the corner of the Rue de Lyon, on a large wall 
pierced with ugly dormer-windows, high up on the second 
story in a hideous pulp of blue, yellow, and green, in which 
the gestures of the presuming victorious tambourinist were 
still outlined, was seen a pitiable troubadour washed by 
all the dampness of winter and the waste water from a 
house of poor people. 

Parisian advertising posters quickly follow one another, 
one covering the other. But when they are so very large 
as this, one part always remains uncovered. For a fort- 
night, in every quarter of Paris, the gaze of the minister 
met an arm, a leg, a piece of the cap or of the peaked 
shoe, which pursued and threatened him, as in the Pro- 
vencal legend, where the victim, being cut in pieces and 
scattered about, still cries out to his murderer from his 
fragments. Here it stood out asa whole ; and the gloomy 
coloring dimly seen in the chilly morning, and condemned 
to suffer every stain before being torn to pieces by a last 
gust of wind, very well pictured the fate of the unhappy 
troubadour, passing his life forever in the lowest of Parisian 
society, which he could no longer leave, still leading the 
farandole, which was now recruited from the waifs of 
society, exiles, and madmen, and from those in pursuit 
of glory, whom the hospital, the common ditch, or dis- 
secting-table await. 

Roumestan entered the car, chilled to the bones 5y this 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 291 


apparition and the cold of a sleepless night, and shivering 
as he looked out of the carriage-doors on the sad views 
in the neighborhood ; on iron bridges across streaming 
streets ; on high houses, and hovels of poverty with their 
innumerable windows stuffed with rags; on those dull, 
wan, sordid faces of people who clasped their arms over 
their bosoms to conceal or to keep themselves warm ; on 
inns with every kind of a sign ; and on a forest of factory- 
chimneys emitting smoke. Then came the first orchards 
of the suburbs black with compost, low mud huts, and 
villas shut up in their gardens, which looked narrower in 
winter, with bushes as dry as the bare wood of the kiosks 
and trellises. Farther on were roads, with pools in hollow 
places, into which poured overflowing cisterns ; and be- 
yond, the horizon was the color of rust; and flocks of 
ravens flew across the deserted fields. He closed his 
eyes to this harsh winter of the North, which the whistle 
of the cars pierced with long cries of distress ; but his 
thoughts behind his closed eyelids were not more smiling. 

They were with that jade, the tie between whom and 
himself still oppressed his heart. He thought of what 
he had done for her, and what it cost him to maintain a 
star for six months. Every thing in a theatrical life is 
false, especially success, which is worth only what one 
pays for it. Expenses of the clague, tickets to dinners, 
receptions, presents to reporters, and every form of 
advertising, magnificent bouquets with which the artist 
blushingly loads her arms, and the ovations during the 
theatrical tour, escorts to the hotel, serenades on the 
balcony, and continual excitements to rouse the public 
from their dull indifference, — all had to be paid for, and 
very dearly. 

For six months he kept an open purse, never bargain- 


292 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


ing about his triumphs with the little one. He was 
present at meetings with the chief of the clague, the 
advertising agents of newspapers, and flower-girls, wnose 
bouquets the singer and her mother, by changing the 
ribbons, altered three times without saying a worl to 
him. These Jewesses from Bordeaux had a sordid 
rapacity, and a fondness for what is expedient, which led 
them to remain at home for days, shabbily dressed, with 
morning jackets over flounced skirts, and old ball-shoes 
on their feet. In this attire Numa generally found them, 
sitting down to play cards, and swearing at each other 
like clowns. Fora long time they had felt no restraint 
with him. He knew all the tricks and pretences of the 
diva, her natural coarseness as an affected, untidy woman 
of the South, that she was ten years older than she 
represented in the green-room, and that, to fix her eter- 
nal smile like a cupid’s bow, she slept every evening with 
her lips drawn up at the corners and covered with cor- 
alline. 

Thinking of these things, Numa also fell asleep, but 
not with his mouth like a bow, I swear to you, but, on the 
contrary, with his features drawn with disgust and fatigue, 
and all his body shaken by the swaying and jolts of a 
train speeding along at full steam. 

“‘Valeince ! Valeince !” 

He opened his eyes like a child roused by the well- 
known voice of a mother. They were already in the 
South, and the sky receded into blue depths between 
clouds driven by the wind. A sunbeam warmed the 
window-pane, and brightened the slender olive-trees 
growing among the pines. A feeling of calm pervaded 
the whole being of the Southerner, and there was a 
change of zone in his ideas. He regretted having been 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 293 


so hard to Lappara. Why destroy the poor fellow’s 
future, and make a whole family desolate? For a fancy, 
as Bompard said. The way to repair it was by removing 
the appearance of disgracefully leaving the ministry, by 
giving a cross. The minister burst into laughter at the 
idea of Lappara’s name in the “ Officiel” with this men- 
tion, “exceptional services.” It was really one, after all, 
since he had delivered his chief from a degrading Zaison. 

“ Orange! Montélimart and Nougat!” Voices rang, 
and were made emphatic by lively gestures. The waiters 
from refreshment-rooms, newsboys, and gate-keepers were 
hurrying about, their eyes starting from their heads. 
They were a very different people from thirty leagues 
above; and the broad Rhéne with waves like a sea 
sparkled in the sunlight which gilded the scalloped ram- 
parts of Avignon, where the bells, which had been ringing 
since they left Rabelais, saluted with their clear tones the 
great man of the Provence. Numa seated himself at 
table in the refreshment-room, before a roll, mushrooms, 
and a bottle of the wine from Nerte, which had ripened 
between stones, and which would enable even a Parisian 
to give the accent of the people from the Landes. But 
his native air most enlivened him, when, after leaving the 
double track at Tarascon, he took a seat in the small 
patriarchal car on a single track, which goes to the 
centre of Provence, where the road is overhung with 
mulberry and olive trees, and clumps of reeds graze the 
doors. There was singing in every car ; and they stopped 
every second to let a drove of animals pass, to take on a 
belated passenger, or to take a package which some boy 
would bring on the run from his cottage. And the peo- 
ple bowed and chatted with farmer-women in the Arles 
head-dress, who stood on their doorstep, or were washing 


204 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


at the stone well. At the stations there was shouting 
and jostling, as some conscript or some girl going to the 
city into service was escorted to the cars. 

“ 7Té, vé/ going without saying good-by, mignote, be 
sure and be very good.” 

They weep and embrace, without paying attention to 
the hermit beggar in a hood, who mutters his “ pater’’ as 
he leans against the gate, and, furious at receiving noth- 
ing, draws up his bag and moves away. 

“ Another ‘ pater’ wasted !”’ 

The remark is heard, tears are dried, and every one 
laughs, the monk louder than the rest. Roumestan, 
drawing back in his coupé to escape the ovations, de- 
lighted in this beautiful humor, and in the sight of the 
brown arched faces lighted with passion, and in the irony 
of the tall fellows with peacock airs; and in the chato 
clear as the long seeds of the muscadine grape, which 
become black and dry in the sun, watched over by 
grandmothers, who shake off the dust of the tomb in 
every gesture of their withered arms; and the exclama- 
tions, “ Zou,” and “ Come,” and “Go ahead,” of every 
one. He once more saw his own people, his mobile, 
nervous Provence, a race of brown crickets, always at 
the door and always singing. He himself was their per- 
fect prototype, having already become cured of his great 
despair of the morning, his disgust and love being swept 
away by the first breath of the mistral, which roared in 
the valley of the Rhone, lifting the train and preventing 
it from going on, driving and tossing every thing, and 
bending trees in an attitude of flight, making the Alpilles 
recede, and sending sudden eclipses over the sun. In 
the distance the town of Aps, in the flickering sunlight, 
stood with its houses grouped around the foot of the 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 295 


ancient tower of the Antonines, as a herd of cattle hud- 
dle together around the oldest bull in the broad Ca- 
margue, to make head against the wind. 

Numa entered the station amid all this roar and excite- 
ment of the mistral. The family, through a feeling of 
delicacy which he shared, had kept his arrival secret, in 
order to avoid choral societies, banners, and solemn 
deputations. Aunt Portal, pompously seated in the arm- 
chair of the station-master, with a foot-warmer at her 
feet, was the only one who came to meet him. As soon 
as the stout lady perceived her nephew, her rosy face, 
which was beaming in repose, wore a desolate expression, 
and began to quiver under her coils of white hair. Hold- 
ing out her arms, she burst into sobs and lamentations. 

“Woe upon us! what misfortune is ours! Such a 
pretty child, Aéchére / and so good! and so sweet! One 
would share one’s last crust with her.” 

“My God! is it over?” thought Roumestan, brought 
back to the purpose of his journey. 

The aunt checked her lamentations to say in a hard, 
cold tone to the servant, who forgot the foot-warmer, 
“Meénicle, the foot-warmer!” Then, in a tone of fren- 
zied grief, she continued to give in detail the virtues of 
Mlle. Le Quesnoy, calling loudly upon heaven and the 
angels to answer why they had not taken her in the place 
of that child, and in her groaning outburst shaking Nu- 
ma’s arm, on which she leaned to walk to her carriage 
with the slow movement of a funeral procession. The 
horses moved slowly, in a whirlwind of twigs and dry 
bark which the mistral flung down as a litter for the illus- 
trious traveller, beneath the bare trees in the Avenue Ber- 
chére. At a turn where porters were accustomed to 
unharness, Ménicle was obliged to crack his whip several 


2096 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


times, his horses were so surprised at the indifference 
shown the great man. Roumestan thought only of the 
horrible news which he had just heard ; and holding the 
two doll-like hands of the aunt, who continued to wipe 
her eyes, he asked softly, — 

“When did it happen?” 

“What, pray?” 

“When did the poor child die?” 

Aunt Portal gave a bound on her pile of cushions. 

“Die? Bou Diow! Who told you she was dead?” 
And then she immediately added with a sigh, “‘She won’t 
jast long, pechére.” 

Oh, no! not long. Now she no longer rose, or left 
the pillows trimmed with lace, on which her little emaci- 
ated face, with a hectic flush on the cheeks, and bluish 
shadows around her eyes and nostrils, every day became 
more unrecognizable. With her ivory hands extended 
on the sheets, and near her a small comb and mirror, 
that she might from time to time smooth her beautiful 
brown hair, she remained for hours without speaking on 
account of hoarseness, with her eyes wandering to the 
dazzling sky and to the tops of the trees in the old gar- 
den of the Portal mansion. This evening in the sunset 
glow, which filled the room with a purplish light, she re- 
mained so long in her dreamy, motionless state that her 
sister, becoming anxious, asked, — 

“ Are you asleep?” 

Hortense shook her head, as if to drive away some 
thought. 

“No, I was not sleeping; and yet I was dreaming, 
dreaming that I was going to die. I was just on the bor- 
ders of this world, leaning over towards the other, lean- 
ing over, and about to fall. I still saw you and parts of 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 207 


my room; but I was already on the other side, and I 
was struck by the silence among the living after the great 
noise made by the dead, a sound like that of a beehive, 
a swarming, a fluttering of wings, and a roaring such as 
the sea leaves in big shells, as if the world of the dead 
were peopled and crowded like that of the living. And 
it was so powerful that it seemed to me that my ears 
heard for the first time, and that I was discovering a new 
sense.” 

She spoke slowly, with her hoarse, hissing voice. Then, 
after a pause, she resumed, with all the spirit the sad, 
broken instrument preserved, — 

“My mind is always wandering. ‘First prize for im- 
agination, Hortense Le Quesnoy of Paris!’” 

A sob, deadened by the sound of a door, was heard. 

“You see,” said Rosalie, “mamma has gone: you 
caused her pain.” 

“T do it on purpose, — a little every day, that she may 
feel less at one time,” answered the young girl in a low 
voice. 

The mistral went galloping through the corridors of 
the old provincial house, groaning under doors and shak 
ing them furiously. Hortense smiled. 

“Do you hear?” she said. “Oh! I love it. It seems 
as if I were far away in distant countries. Poor dar- 
ling,” she added, taking her sister’s hand, and carrying it 
with an exhausted movement to her mouth. “What a 
bad turn I have unwittingly done you! your little one 
will belong to the South, and through my fault. You will 
never forgive me, Francioze.” 

Suddenly, above the noise of the wind, a whistle from 
a locomotive reached her ears, and made her start. 


“ Ah! the seven-o’clock train.” 
20 


298 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Like all invalids and captives, she was familiar with the 
slightest sounds around her, and mingled them in her 
motionless life together with the horizon opposite, the 
pine woods, and the old crumbling Roman tower on the 
hill, From this moment she became anxious and agi- 
tated, and watched the door, at which a maid finally 
appeared. 

“Tt is well,”’ said Hortense quickly, smiling at her sis- 
ter. “Will you let me be alone a moment? I will call 
you.” 

Rosalie believed a priest was coming to see her, with 
his parish Latin and terrifying consolations. She went 
down into the garden, a Southern enclosure, with paths 
bordered with box, and shaded by tall cypresses, but 
without flowers. Since she had become a nurse, she 
came here to get a breath of air, and hide her tears, and 
to relax the nervous tension caused by grief. Oh! how 
well she now understood what her mother said: “The 
loss of those we love is the only irreparable misfortune.” 
Her other sorrows, and the wreck of her happiness as a 
wife, all vanished before this one. She thought only of 
this fearful, inevitable event, coming nearer every day. 
Was it the hour of the day, or the red fugitive sun which 
left the garden in the shadow, and lingered on the windows 
of the house, or the plaintive wind sighing overhead, 
which one heard without feeling, which caused her to 
feel an inexpressible sadness and anguish for her Hor- 
tense, who was more than a sister, almost a daughter, to 
her, and made her anticipate the joys of maternity? Sobs 
choked her, but no tears fell. She would have liked to 
cry out, and call for aid; but on whom? Heaven, to 
which the despairing turn their eyes, was so high, so far, 
so cold, and looked as if the hurricane had polished it. 


HORTENSE LE QUESNOY. 299 
A flock of pilgrim birds were hastening to it, whose cries 
and the movement of whose wings as they soared could 
not be heard. Was it possible for a voice from earth to 
reach those silent, chilling depths? 

She tried, however ; and, with her face turned to the 
light which was rising to disappear on the eaves of the 
old roof, she prayed to Him who has pleased to hide him- 
self to find shelter from our griefs and laments; him 
whom some adore with confidence, with their brows to 
the ground, and whom others seek in despair, with arms 
outstretched, or threaten, with uplifted fists rebelliously 
clinched, or deny him that they may excuse his severity, 
— and this blasphemy and denial still is prayer. 

She was summoned to the house, and ran in shudder- 
ing, having reached that state of anxious fear in which 
the slightest noise startled her to the depths of her being. 
The invalid, with a smile, drew her to her bed, having no 
longer strength or voice, as if she had just been talking 
for a long time. 

“T have one favor to ask of you, my darling. You 
know the last favor which is granted to one doomed to 
die. Forgive your husband. He has been very wicked, 
and unworthy of you; but be indulgent, and return to 
him. Do this for me, sister, and for our parents, whom 
your separation grieves, and who will need to have all to 
cling to them, and surround them with affection. Numa 
is so full of life that no one can cheer them like him. 
You will do it, will you not? You forgive?” 

Rosalie answered, “I promise.” What was the sacri- 
fice of her pride compared to the irreparable misfortune ? 
Standing near the bed, she closed her eyes a second to — 
hold back the tears. A trembling hand was placed in 
hers. He stood there before her, moved and pitiable, 


300 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


and tormented by a desire to pour out the feelings he 
dared not express. 

““Embrace,” said Hortense. 

Rosalie leaned forward her forehead, which Numa 
timidly touched with his lips. 

“No, no, not like that; in each other’s arms, as when 
one loves.” 

Numa drew his wife to him with a deep sob, while 
night fell in the dark room in pity for her who had 
brought them heart to heart. It was her last manifesta- 
tion of life. From that moment she remained absorbed, 
absent, and indifferent to all that passed around her, and 
nade no answer to the sorrowful farewells to which there 
is no answer, and retained on her youthful face the dull, 
haughty rancor of those who, longing to live, die too 
soon, and to whom disillusion has not said farewell. 


A BAPTISM. 301 


CHAPTER XXI. 
A BAPTISM. 


Tue great day in Aps is Monday, the market-day. 
Long before dawn the broad deserted roads leading from 
Arles and Avignon to the town, in which the dust lies as 
quietly as a fall of snow, become lively with the rumbling 
of slow carts, the cackling of hens in their cages, and the 
barking of leaping dogs, and the rushing sound like a 
rain-storm made by the passing of a flock of sheep, 
among which the shepherd moved with long swaying 
motions, borne along by the bounding flock rolling on 
like waves. The drovers hoarsely shouting, and running 
breathlessly after their beasts, the dull thud of the cudgel 
on their rough sides, and riders armed with pitchforks 
are lost to sight and sound as they grope along under 
the portals of the ramparts, whose embrasures festoon 
the starry sky. They fill the Cowrs which surrounds the 
sleeping town, which at this hour resumes its character 
of an ancient Roman and Saracen city, with its irregular 
roofs and pointed towers rising above crumbling, totter- 
ing stairways. The confused murmur at the entrance of 
these sleepy men and beasts ceases ; and they noiselessly 
file between the silvery trunks of the big plane-trees, and 
overflow the street, and even the yards of the houses, 
bearing with them warm odors from litters, and the aroma 
of herbs and ripe fruit. Then when the town awakens, 


it finds itself filled everywhere by a large, lively, and 
20 


302 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


noisy market, as if the whole rural Provence, with men 
and beasts, fruit and seeds, had risen and come upon 
them like a flood in the night. 

It then affords a wonderful glimpse of rural wealth, 
varying according to the season. In places appointed by 
immemorial custom, oranges, pomegranates, and golden 
quinces, sensitive sorbs, and green and yellow melons are 
piled in flat baskets, and in stacks by the thousands ; 
peaches, figs, and grapes are crushed in their express- 
baskets, by the side of bags of vegetables. The sheep, 
little kids, and the smooth rosy pigs have a listless look 
behind the fences of their enclosures. Yoked oxen walk 
before their purchaser, and bulls with smoking nostrils 
pull at the iron ring which fastens them to the wall. Far- 
ther on, little Camargue and degenerate Arabian horses, 
with their brown, white, or red manes mingled together, 
were leaping about, and, in answer to their names, 7%, 
Lucifer, 72, L’Estérel, ran to eat oats from the hand of 
their helpers, who were true gawchos of the pampas, 
booted half-way up their legs. ‘Then there were fowls in 
pairs, with their red claws tied up, chickens and guinea- 
fowl beating the ground with their wings as they lay in a 
row at the feet of market-women. ‘Then, in the fish-mar- 
ket, there were live eels on fennel, trout from the Sorgue 
and Durance, the rainbow hues of their glistening scales 
mingling in their death agony. Finally, at the extreme 
end of the market, in a dry winter-forest, were wooden 
shovels, forks, and rakes of white, new wood standing 
between carts and harrows. 

On the other side, against the rampart, unharnessed 
carriages with dusty wheels stood in two rows. In the 
open space the crowd with difficulty stir and move 
around, hail each other, discuss and bargain in various 


A BAPTISM. 303 


accents ; the refined, affected, Provencal accent, which 
requires turns of the head and shoulders, and bold 
mimicry, and that of the Languedoc, which is harder ana 
heavier, and has an almost Spanish articulation. From 
time to time, there was a movement among felt hats, 
Arlesian or peasant headdresses, and a crowding and 
pushing among the large number of buyers and sellers, 
who moved aside at the shouts of the driver of some 
belated cart, who with a great effort made his way through 
the crowd. The dourgeoise city was made to seem little, 
and felt great disdain towards the rural invasion, on 
which, however, its originality and fortune depend. From 
morning until evening they walk the streets, and stop at 
the harnessmakers, shoemakers, and clockmakers, to gaze 
at the jacguemards of the town-house, and the windows 
of stores, being as dazzled by the gilding and plate-glass 
as were the drovers of Theocritus before the palace of 
the Ptolemies. 

Some come out from apothecaries, laden with bundles 
and large bottles; others, a wedding-party, enter a jew- 
eller’s to select, after shrewd bargaining, ear-rings, with 
long pendants, and a necklace for the bride. The ~ustic 
skirts, and shy, sunburnt faces, with their eager, busy 100k, 
remind one of some Vendean town captured by the Roy- 
alists in the time of the great wars. 

This morning, the third Monday of February, there 
was a lively, dense crowd, as in the finest summer days, 
which a cloudless sky glowing with warm sunlight made 
it resemble. People were standing in groups, talking and 
gesticulating ; but the conversation turned not so much 
on buying and selling as on an event which suspended 
trade, and caused every eye and face, even the staring 
eyes of the animals and the anxious ears of the little 


304 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


Camargue horses, to turn towards the church of Saint 
Perpetua. The news had just spread through the market, 
where it caused an extraordinary rise, that this very day 
Numa’s boy, the little Roumestan, whose birth three 
weeks before had been received with transports of joy in 
Aps and all the provincial South, was to be baptized. 

Unfortunately the baptism, having been delayed on ac- 
count of the deep mourning in the family, must for the 
same reason be kept somewhat private ; and had it not 
been for a few old sorceresses from the country of Baux, 
who station themselves every Monday on the steps of Saint 
Perpetua with a small market of aromatic herbs and dried 
and fragrant medicinal herbs gathered in the Albpilles, 
the ceremony would probably have passed unnoticed. 
On seeing aunt Portal’s carriage stop before the church, 
the old market-women gave the news to the dealers in 
aie¢ts, who display their shining strings everywhere, from 
one end of the Cours to the other. The dealers in aze¢s 
notified the fish-women, and soon all the bustle and noise 
of the market poured into the little street which leads to 
the church. They crowded around Meénicle, who, in deep 
mourning, with crape on his arm and hat, sat up straight 
on the box, silently answering questions by an indifferent 
play of his shoulders. In spite of every thing they per- 
sisted in waiting, standing crowded and smothered be- 
neath the streamers, the boldest mounted on posts, and 
the eyes of every one fixed on the great door, which 
finally opened. 

There was a prolonged “Ah!” such as is heard at a 
display of fireworks, triumphant but modulated, then 
checked by the appearance of a tall old man dressed in 
black, who looked very sad and dismal for a godfather. 
Mme. Portal was leaning on his arm, and looked very 


A BAPTISM. ~ 305 


proud at having been a godmother with the first president, 
and at having her name by the side of his on the parish 
register. She, however, looked sober on account of her 
recent affliction and the sad feelings recalled by the 
church. There was disappointment in the crowd at the 
sight of this solemn couple who followed the great man 
of Aps, who was also in black, and chilled by the loneli- 
ness and coldness of this baptism between four tapers, 
without other music than the cries of the little fellow, on 
whose unfeathered, bird-like pate the lustral water caused 
the most disagreeable sensation. But the appearance of 
a hearty-looking, broad, heavy nurse, bedecked with rib- 
bons like an agricultural-fair prize, and with the bright 
little bundle of white lace and embroidery across her 
shoulder, dispelled the sadness of the spectators, and 
sent up a new cry like that caused by a sky-rocket, and 
joy was manifested by one to another in a thousand en- 
thusiastic exclamations : — 

“Tou vaqui/ there he is! see, see!” 

Roumestan, surprised, with eyes dazzled and blinking 
in the sunlight, stopped a minute on the high steps to 
look at the blackamoor faces and the sheep-like crowding 
of a black flock from which the strongest affection was 
expressed for him; and, although accustomed to ova- 
tions, he felt one of the strongest emotions of his life as 
a public man, a proud intoxication, which a new and 
thrilling sentiment of paternity ennobled. He was about. 
to speak, then remembered that this was not the proper 
place. 

“ Get in, nurse,” he said to the quiet Burgundy woman, 
whose ox-like eyes looked bewildered ; and, while with 
her light burden she disappeared in the carriage, he told 
Ménicle to drive home quickly by the cross-road. 


306 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“No, no! the main road! the main road!” was the 
answer of the bystanders, given with a great outburst. 

This meant that he must go the length of the fair- 
grounds. 

“The main road!” said Roumestan after glancing 
consultingly at his father-in-law, for whom he would have 
liked to avoid the joyous excitement. 

The carriage started, with a heavy creaking of its old 
frame, entered the street, then the Cours, amidst the hur. 
rahs of the crowd, which became excited at its own 
shouting, and reached a delirious enthusiasm, and at 
every moment blocked the horses and wheels. ‘The win- 
dows being lowered, they went at a walk, amid acclama- 
tions, lifted hats, and waving of handkerchiefs, and the 
odors and warm breaths from the market reaching them 
as they passed. The women leaned their eager bronzed 
faces forward into the carriage ; and the mere sight of the 
baby’s cap caused them to exclaim, — 

“Diou! lou béeu drdle! Heavens! what a beautiful 
child !” 

“He resembles his father, gué ?” 

“He already has his Bourbon nose and fine manners.” 

“ Show your face, darling ! show your pretty boy face !” 

“He is as pretty as an egg!” 

“You could drink him up in a glass of water!” 

“Té, my treasure!” 

“My young partridge!” 

“My little lamb!” 

“My little guinea-fowl !” 

“My fine pearl!” 

They devoured him with the light of their brown eyes ; 
and he, a child a month old, was not at all frightened. 
Stirred by the hubbub, and supported by a cushion with 


A BAPTISM. 307 


pink ribbons, and with two drops of milk in the corner 
of his lips, he looked quietly on with his cat’s eyes, 
whose pupils were fixed and dilated. He was visibly 
pleased at the sight of the heads at the carriage-doors, 
and at the increasing noise, in which soon were mingled 
the bellowing, roaring, and screeching of the animals, 
who were nervously imitating the people. There was a 
general méée of extended necks, and open mouths and 
jaws of beasts, opening to pour forth hideous noises to 
the glory of Roumestan and his progeny. Even then, 
while all in the carriage held their hands to their shat- 
tered ears, the little man remained impassive ; and this 
coolness amused even the old president, who said, — 

“Tf I do not mistake, he is born for the forum.” 

They hoped to be free on leaving the market ; but the 
crowd followed them, increased by the weavers on the 
new road, and companies of warpers and porters from 
the Avenue Berchére. Merchants ran out on the steps 
of their stores, and the balcony of the Club des Blancs 
was filled with people ; and soon choral societies, with 
banners, poured out into every street, performing choruses 
with a flourishing of trumpets, as on the arrival of Numa, 
only the present ovation was gayer and more impromptu, 
and unlike an ordinary festival. 

In the best room of the Portal mansion, whose white 
wood and flame-colored silk dated a century back, 
Rosalie lay in an easy-chair, her eyes wandering from the 
empty cradle to the deserted, sunny street ; for she was 
becoming impatient for her child’s return. On her deli- 
cate, bloodless features, sunken with fatigue and tears, but 
which nevertheless expressed a certain happy composure, 
could be read the story of her life for the past few months, 
—her anxiety and grief, her rupture with Numa, the 


308 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


death of Hortense, and, finally, the birth of her child, 
which caused every thing else to be forgotten. 

When this great happiness came to her, she did not 
count upon it, being broken down by so many blows, and 
believing herself incapable of giving life. In the last 
days she fancied she could not even feel the impatient 
starts of the little imprisoned being ; and, the cradle and 
fayetfe being ready, she hid them through a superstitious 
fear, only telling her English nurse, “If you are asked for 
the child’s clothes, you will know where to find them.” 

To abandon one’s self to a bed of torture, with closed 
eyes and clenched teeth, for long hours, broken every 
five minutes by a heart-rending cry, and forced to submit 
to one’s destiny as a victim whose joys must be dearly 
paid for, is nothing when hope is at the end ; but to expect 
one’s illusions to be finally destroyed, —the last grief in 
which the almost animal moans of the woman are mingled 
with the sobs of disappointed maternity, — what frightful 
martyrdom ! 

In the depth of her exhaustion she kept repeating, “ He 
is dead, he is dead,” when she heard a voice attempting 
to breathe and cry, —the call for light of the child being 
born. She answered it, and oh! with what overflowing 
tenderness, — 

“ My babe!” 

He was living. They brought him to her. This short- 
breathed, dazzled, bewildered little being was hers. This 
bit of flesh united her to life ; and, by merely holding him 
against herself, a sensation of comforting coolness was 
imparted to her feverish body. No more mourning and 
misery. Her child, her boy, the desire and regret which 
she had endured for ten years, and made her eyes burn 
with tears when she looked at the children of others, the 


A BAPTISM. 309 


babe which she had kissed in advance on so many pretty 
rosy cheeks, was there before her, and caused her a new 
delight and surprise every time that she leaned over from 
her bed to the cradle, and drew aside the muslin curtains 
over the sleeping infant, whose breathing was hardly audi- 
ble as it lay curled up. She wished to have him near her 
all the time. When he was taken out, she was anxious, 
and counted the minutes; but never with more anguish 
than on this morning of the baptism. 

“ What time is it?” she asked every moment. ‘“ How 
late they are! Dear me ! how long they have been gone !”’ 

Mme. Le Quesnoy remained near her daughter, and 
re-assured her, though she felt somewhat troubled herself ; 
for this first and only grandchild was very dear to the 
heart of the grandparents, and brightened their mourning 
with hope. 

A distant, rambling noise drawing near increased the 
anxiety and impatience of the two women. 

They go to the window to look out and listen. There 
is singing and firing and noise and the ringing of bells. 
Suddenly the English nurse, looking out, exclaims, — 

“ Madame, it is on account of the baptism.” 

This noisy mob, howling like savages around the war- 
post, was on account of the baptism. 

“Oh, this South, this South!” repeated the young 
mother, alarmed. She trembled lest they smother her 
babe in the hubbub. But no: here he is alive and full 
of vigor, shaking his little short arms, and with his eyes 
wide open. He wears the baptismal robe of the other 
child, which Rosalie herself embroidered and trimmed ; 
and she now has two boys—the dead and the living — 
in one. 

“He did not cry or need to be nursed once all the 


310 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


way!” said aunt Portal, who was relating in her imagina- 
tive style the triumphant tour of the town, while doors 
slammed in the old hotel, — which was again filled with 
ovations, — and while the servants ran out on the porch, 
and gave lemonade to the musicians. Trumpets sounded, 
and the windows rattled. M. and Mme. Le Quesnoy 
went down into the garden to get away from the sounds 
of mirth which pained them; and as Roumestan went 
out on the balcony to speak to the people, aunt Portal 
and the English Polly went quickly into the parlor to hear 
him. 

“Will madame please hold the baby?” asked the Nou- 
nou, Curious as a savage ; and Rosalie was quite happy to 
be alone with her child in her lap. From her window 
she could see the bright banners fluttering in the wind, and 
the dense crowd hanging on the words of their great man. 
Some of his words reached her at times; but she heard 
above all the “mére of his winning, moving voice, and a 
shiver of pain passed over her at the recollection of all 
the trouble that had come to her from the eloquent tongue 
which could lie and deceive so easily. Now it was over: 
she felt protected from disappointment and wounds. She 
had a child: her dreams and ambitions were realized. 
And, making a shield of the dear little creature whom 
she pressed across her bosom, she questioned him softly, 
close in his ear, as if she sought an answer or resemblance 
in this little chubby face with its small features, which 
seemed hollowed out like wax that bears the impress of a 
kiss, and already indicated a sensual, violent mouth, with 
an arched nose which betokened a love of adventures, 
and a weak, square chin : — 

“Will you also be a liar? Will you pass your life in 
betraying others and yourself, and breaking innocent 


A BAPTISM. 311 


hearts which have done you no harm but to believe in 
you and love you? Will you be inconstant and cruel, 
taking life like a virtuoso and a singer of cavatinas? 
Will you trade in words, without troubling yourself about 
their worth and whether they represent your thought, if 
they only are brilliant and sound well?” 

And holding her mouth to the little ear surrounded by 
little soft down, and kissing it, she asked, — 

“ Will you be a little Roumestan, say?” 

The orator in the balcony was becoming exalted, and 
was reaching the highest degree of eloquence, in which 
one could hear only the parting words accented in South- 
emt style; “My -soul ..... my blood .. : morals... 
religion . . . my country,” made emphatic by the cheers 
of his hearers, who were made in his image, and whom 
he represented in his traits and vices, the effervescent, 
mobile South, tumultuous as a billowy sea, and each wave 
representing himself. 

There was a final hurrah, then the crowd moved slowly 
away. Roumestan returned to his room, wiping his fore- 
head. Intoxicated by his triumph, and warmed by the 
inexhaustible affection of the people, he approached his 
wife, and kissed her with sincere feeling. He felt kindly 
towards her, and tender as in their early married life, 
and had neither remorse nor harsh feeling. 

“ Bé/ did you think your son was to be so féted ?”’ 

Kneeling before the lounge, the great man of Aps 
played with his child, and sought the little fingers which 
caught hold of every thing, and the little feet kicking the 
air. Rosalie looked at him, and her brow contracted as 
she tried to study his contradictory, incomprehensible 
nature. Suddenly, as if she had solved a riddle, she 
asked, — 


312 NUMA ROUMESTAN. 


“What is that proverb you have here which aunt Por- 
tal gave the other day? ‘ Joy of the street,’ what is it?” 

“Oh, yes! ‘ Gau de carriero, doulou d’oustau, —joy 
of the street, sorrow of the home.” 

“That is it,” she said, with strong emotion. Then, 
letting the words fall one by one as if they were dropping 
into an abyss, she slowly repeated, expressing in it the 
lament of her life, this proverb which describes in words 
a whole race : — 

“ Joy of the street, sorrow of the home.” 


THE END. 





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